


Yours Sincerely

by Khemi



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: A Sex Talk in the form of Rap, Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Aromantic Character, Asexual Character, Awkward First Times, Birthday Party, Companionable Snark, Dating, Dave is John's wingman, Falling In Love, Frenemies, Letters, M/M, Minor Violence, Neighbors, Nonbinary Character, Older John/Younger Dirk, Or notes I guess, Prankster's Gambit, STRIFE!, Sex in later chapters, This was meant to be a one shot, to some degree
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-23
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2017-12-24 08:46:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 57,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/937976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khemi/pseuds/Khemi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John likes his apartment, and his job, and his life! Or at least he tells himself he does, tells himself that the void in his life isn't really there, and drowns out his doubts with loud movies late at night.</p><p>Except one day that starts this whole bizarre war with the asshole downstairs, some guy who thinks he can judge John's taste in movies, and sasses him in every gold-written letter that lands on his mat.</p><p>It's not like he could possibly be <em>enjoying</em> that war. Not one bit. Nope!</p><p>Just like he can't possibly be starting to get a little bit obsessed with catching just one glimpse of the snarky dick who moves so fast John swears he's hardly there at all...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. This Means War

**Author's Note:**

  * For [carcinoGeneticist69](https://archiveofourown.org/users/carcinoGeneticist69/gifts).



> For my sweetest friend [Seffa](http://smuppet-tampons.tumblr.com/), who has been a great influence and is also the undisputed lead DirkJohn shipper in my life.
> 
> I've never written them like this before so man oh man I hope you like it! I certainly liked writing it.
> 
> Away ~

You’ve never really paid attention to your neighbours.

It isn’t really anything _vindictive_ , per se. It’s just that you're a busy man who works late nights and spends most of the day draped over your couch snoring and mumbling in fever dreams about rabbits and ghosts and Howie Mandel. When you do get home after some stand-up and magic show that goes down well without fail and leaves you humming merrily as you fish out your keys, your neighbours are all tucked away in their own little nests, and rather than fret about it you take up residence with your good friends Cage and McConaughey, sitting with a blanket over your shoulders and a Bud in your hand.

It feels like your own little cinema with a precariously balanced and far too sugary bowl of popcorn loosely between your folded legs and the volume up high enough you don’t miss a thing. In the dark of the night all that matters is the next big fight or romance or interlude that leaves you chuckling into a fistful of confectionaries, and it staves off you considering the stress of the next big show, or how much you actually miss home, or how much you wish you had someone else to offer that big bowl of popcorn to.

You’re fine, and you’re having a great time!

You’re too old to lie around pining for pranks and excitement like you used to. You’re an adult now, and have been for quite a few more years than you’d like to admit. This is your routine, and you’re completely happy with it, just like you always insist in your letters to your Dad, or when Rose bothers you with a concerned frown and a thoughtful furrow of her brow.

You’re out telling jokes and doing tricks just like you always wanted to, out in the big wide world and having a _blast_.

And between every movie you watch to distract yourself from the gnawing realisation that this isn’t quite what you really wanted, played at a volume loud enough to drown out all your uncomfortable thoughts, you don’t ever sit and stare out of the window, wishing for something to fill up a void in your life you try to pretend isn’t there.

.:.

A Tuesday so unremarkable you would have mistaken it for any other dawns with you being woken rather unceremoniously by a flurry of envelopes landing heavily on your mat.

Some particularly friendly girl you have met exactly once decided to begin working as a postwoman for your apartment block, dutifully collecting the mail downstairs and taking it up to every flat. You suppose it saved you a trip, but she had a habit of knocking as she posted them through to let you know she’d done so, like the pile of bills and letters from your agent weren’t enough to lead you to that conclusion, and you might miss them completely if she she didn’t point them out with a loud beat.

A coffee is acquired before you approach them with all the joy you usually invest in bills or finding out where you have to navigate public transport to for your next lot of gigs. Today’s load seem particularly uninteresting, filled with junk and more money out of your pocket, and you drop it on the kitchen counter and fan it like one of your decks of cards, casting an eye over it to figure out what to suffer first.

The corner of an envelope catches your eye, the one that would have been buried at the bottom. You shift the mail on top of it away, and stare with growing interest and confusion at the pink, flowery paper, looking like a six year old girl had chosen it, overly swirly handwriting on the top in silver gel pen proclaiming it’s for the eyes of _The Asshole in Apartment 413._

Curiosity fills you. The coffee mug is settled on the side and then you delicately lift the envelope, turning it over in your hands a few times for any sign of who sent it, before you slip a nail beneath the flap and pry it open.

Dear asshole upstairs, it begins on paper covered with flowers and ribbon-wearing horses, in writing that looked more everyday, I didn’t want it to come to this but apparently repeatedly slamming on the ceiling didn’t actually reach your delicate and probably seriously fucked up ears, so consider this my formal request for you to be less of an asshole and consider the fact that other people might possibly live within a thousand yards of you.

While I am sure you enjoy the shit that you insist on watching night in and night out, I don’t enjoy listening to it so much, despite the fact I could now quote most of your library of what I loosely call movies from start to finish thanks to constant, incessant exposure to them. Though at first I seriously tried to appreciate some sort of ironic genius in them, I am finally at the point I’ve realised there is none, and you’re either watching them because you’re an idiot or you’re trying to satisfy some kind of Nic Cage fetish that I’m really not sure I want to discuss.

For the love of God, turn that shit down, or at least watch a movie that isn’t so shit it makes my ears bleed and my will to live fade away. Seriously, I can name twenty better films off the top of my head right now, and if baby needs a guide to decent cinema he’ll get one.

Your concerned neighbour, the guy with taste in apartment 313.

You read it through again, slowly, eyes narrowing behind your glasses to an irritated squint. There is nothing wrong with your taste in movies! Your film collection is impeccable! _You_ aren’t the one with a problem.

The letter gets folded up, slipped back into its silly envelope, and placed carefully to one side.

The guy _without_ taste in apartment 313 is about to get an education, whether he likes it or not.

.:.

It actually distracts you through your set that night. You almost slip up and deliver a few jokes wrong, and once you almost pull the wrong card out of the deck - _almost_ , of course, because you are still a professional, and you managed to keep it all in hand. One letter from someone who you don’t even know isn’t going to throw you off your A-game!

But it does make you wobble quite a bit.

On the bus home, you have your well-used and dog-eared notebook open across your slightly too-long legs, scribbling in it with a growing smile as you concoct the finest movie marathon you think will ever have been watched by human eyes. You feel blessed it is you, of all people, who gets to enjoy it.

Well, you and that asshole down in 313, of course! You wouldn’t want him missing out on the _perfection_.

Inside your apartment, you dim the lights, set a double sized helping of popcorn on the couch beside you, then reverently prepare a stack of boxes, the remote a godly sceptre in your hand with which you will bring enlightenment to the masses. And by the masses, you mean that one particular guy downstairs. That one particular guy downstairs who brought this on _himself_.

Before you settle in, you glance over at his letter, still resting pointedly on the shelf beside your DVDs. To be honest, you have no idea why you’re so worked up over it! You guess it’s just something to do, to occupy you, and you…

Well, you kind of _needed_ that. Not that you’d ever admit it.

You press play, and as the start of Ghostbusters fills your screen you hum and tap the volume up, long past the point it drowns out the sound of something starting to bang on the floor beneath your feet.

.:.

The letter you find the next morning was clearly put through your door by hand. You grin when you notice it, darting over and swiping up the envelope, this time adorned with manga cats and Japanese exclamations. Your name has levelled up to _The One of a Kind Dickhole_ and you chuckle a little bit as you neatly open it, swinging around on one foot to go and collapse back onto the couch.

Dear the chooser of soul destroyingly bad films to watch at motherfucking midnight.

You snort out a laugh, grinning as you read on.

I swear to god, bro. I tried to be nice about this. Now I’m not sure what part of my last letter spelled out some secret code that told you to subject me to more of the inane shit you seem to need like a drug, but let me assure you there is no he doth protest too much going on here.

You are subjecting me to films that range from B-movie to oh-god-my-fucking-eyes movie, and that’s without even watching them. We really need to sort this out before the cops get called in to a homicide committed to save my inner movie critic from a fate worse than death, because the amount of jumping up and down and yelling he’s been doing about your playlist up there is enough I’m amazed you haven’t been able to fucking hear him.

Just. Stop.

Get earphones. Get actual taste in movies. I genuinely don’t care what it is you do. Sharing may be caring but you’re smothering me with care right now and I’m seriously fine without. I would even prefer going without. In fact I am outright stating that you take your sharing and shove it up where I think your head might be because for the first time in my life I’m regretting being nocturnal because of the new soundtrack to my life you and your shitty actor bros keep insisting on providing me with.

Thanks in advance for manning the fuck up and dealing with your Cage fetish for the good of the general population.

Your increasingly less concerned and more maddened neighbour, the guy with a sword and a will to use it in apartment 313.

P.S Dude, don’t think I didn’t hear you singing along and reciting lines. I don’t care how high your volume was, that shit was as clear and embarrassing as a see-through speedo. Cut that shit out. I mean, cut everything out, but for the love of decent movies especially this.

You can’t contain the genuine burst of laughter that leaves you, and the smile on your face lingers through a shower, and breakfast, and heading out to do some shopping before the only thing left to eat in your house is that one jar of pickles right at the back of your fridge you can’t actually remember buying, have never opened, and can’t bring yourself to throw away.

On the way downstairs you fish out your notebook, tearing out a page and sliding it under a certain door.

i’m glad you’re enjoying it so much! You scribble. your caring neighbour in apartment 413.

.:.

When you get home from your gig that night, already considering what film you might enjoy, you’re so lost in your thoughts that the first you know of the box outside your door is when you almost trip over it and smack your chin into the door with a heavy thud that judders through your jaw.

You straighten, rubbing the pain away like that will actually _work_ , and glare down at the offending package.

There has never been so much glitter, ribbons, and adorable yet somehow disturbing kittens in your life before. Rather than pick it up and coat your hands, you unlock the door and nudge it onto your mat with the tip of a sneaker, fearful the radioactive box of whatever the fuck has been _clearly_ left by your _dearest_ of neighbours will contaminate your whole house with glitter you’ll still be finding in several months.

You put on gloves and open the box leaning as far back from it as you can. A lifetime of growing up with your Dad’s particular brand of parenting has taught you you can never be too careful of unexpected gifts.

It’s a pleasant surprise, initially, when you find a stack of DVDs inside, various films that appeal to you more than you expected them to. Action classics and supernatural comedies - you’re actually confused by quite how good the gift actually seems.

There’s a small card on top of them, with a reindeer on the front despite it being mid July.

You aren’t surprised the writing inside is a neat gold.

Dear everyone’s favourite neighbour,

You know what? You’re right. I am enjoying this. Clearly all my previous exclamations of pain were simply deluded, and I am in fact a masochist. Your obnoxiously loud films are the only light in my dull, dreary life, and without them I would be as empty as your list of good cinema.

As a peace offering to promote my continued suffering thanks to your kind attempts to deafen and enlighten me with films that are clearly superior to anything I have previously enjoyed, I have provided you with viewing that I think you will find suitable, and I know for a fact I will.

I look forward to our mandatory film session tonight, and to once more attempting to work while my needle and thread literally vibrates out of my hands thanks to you kindly raising the volume to a level I can hear as clearly as though the poor dialogue was being stiffly screamed into my ear.

Yours, the humble and clearly inferior film enthusiast in apartment 313.

The first DVD case is inspected thoroughly, but it looks like it should do. You open it and examine the disc with the same critical eye. None of it looks home printed, it all looks like it’s fresh from a store, right down to the glossy inserts clipped inside.

You’re still suspicious, but defiant. Whatever his game is, you’ll play it.

The disc is deposited into your player, and you settle back, lifting the remote and cranking the volume up to share the experience before you press play and the blue on the screen disappears, replaced with a typical piracy disclaimer, all still just as you’d expect.

Then it fills with colour, the speakers begin to blare, and you have an abrupt moment of wanting to slap yourself in the face when there are _far_ too many ponies prancing across your screen to a cheerful tune declaring the benefits of friendship.

You _hear_ him laughing, voice deep and rich even through the floor.

Despite everything, you watch the first disc all the way to the end so he doesn’t _beat_ you, stomaching it all and realising halfway through it that if you listen carefully, you can hear the asshole in 313 singing along.

.:.

You try to scout him out.

All times of the day and night you linger on the stairs, doodling idly in your notebook to pass the time. New trick ideas, new jokes, they all flow fluidly from pencil to page, and you seriously don’t mind the time you spend just waiting.

Except you just never _see_ him.

You hear the door go over and over, you _know_ he’s come out, but before you look up he’s gone, the front door shutting too fast several flights below you, like he somehow zipped there like the roadrunner. It’s frustrating and you don’t understand it, pacing and tapping your foot impatiently until you hear the front door again, but then by the time you lean over the rails to catch a glimpse his door is already slamming next to you and it’s driving you _insane_.

The letters you start finding don’t help one bit.

Dear surprisingly tall asshole, I like that shirt, you should wear it on our next stalking date. Looking forward to seeing you and hearing your sweet, sweet, screams of frustration. Yours, the guy singing catch me if you can in apartment 313.

You have never disliked anyone quite so intensely before.

Because of course you dislike him. You insist to yourself that you do.

Dear mister blue eyes, are those natural? They look like contacts and if they’re not then mark me impressed because that’s some seriously #0000ff blue you’re rocking there and you look like you stepped straight out of one of my animes, right down to thinking you make friends by stalking them. At least if you’re sitting outside my door waiting to miss me yet again I don’t have to put up with another incredible film, though, so seriously dude, keep doing that as long as you’d like. Yours, the amused and bemused resident of apartment 313.

You start leaving a film running while you sit and wait, muttering to yourself as your innocent doodles start turning into prank ideas for the invisible dolt who needs to cut back on his snark.

Dear my sweet guardian angel, I feel so safe with you out there trying to observe my every movement. It isn’t creepy at all, and in fact I think I have to praise your commitment to a clearly lost cause. I’m growing used to seeing you as I leave and return every night, and to hearing you make a sound like a dying banshee and throw your notebook in frustration when you fail to see me. How did I ever live without your constant vigilance and obsessive compulsion to gaze upon my fine ass? We just don’t know. Yours, the flattered and yet more than a little disturbed guy in apartment 313.

A plan is formed, and you measure his mail slot, figuring out the exact size of a parcel you could get through there. You chuckle to yourself as you sketch out a more final design, and when you go upstairs and find a letter already waiting for you, it doesn’t even annoy you as much as it had before. 

Dear my dashing prince forever trying to rescue me from the tower he clearly thinks I’m stuck in, you’re starting to grow on me with your thoughtful lurking and leaving your loud, horrendous movies on for me even though I know for a fact you aren’t watching them. I feel like we really have a connection going here, but that might also be the start of Stockholm Syndrome or whatever the equivalent is that causes an attachment to your stalker. If you ever actually managed to catch me perhaps I’d even give you a big kiss for rescuing me from good cinema and my own home as you clearly intend to. Until tomorrow night, for our inevitable little stalkdate. Yours, the princess who might actually be in another castle that isn’t apartment 313.

You actually laugh at that one, and place it with the pile of letters you clearly _haven’t_ been collecting with growing affection, focusing on preparing your planned revenge with such delight you don’t even notice when the film that’s playing finishes, and leaves you alone in silence other than the cheerful song you’re singing under your breath.

.:.

It takes a lot of effort to crush down the clown on a spring into the box, but it’s worth it, as you package it with a small ribbon and bow and admire how flat and innocent the package looks. Getting the clown to go flat took a few tries, but now as soon as the top is loosened enough a harlequin on a spring will rocket out with enough force to make _anyone_ jump.

Anyone being your most beloved neighbour.

You think of his face, whatever it looks like, and the expression on it when he opens it. Man, you wish you could see that! But your imagination will have to do.

He probably looks like a douchebag. Yeah!

...What does a douchebag actually look like, though?

You shake your head because you’re distracting yourself from the actual goal, from winning the gambit, and instead grab a blue marker. Then you stop, and stare at it. No, too obvious! He’ll know it’s from you and he might be just as cautious as you were opening his glitter box. You can’t have that!

In the end you just pick it up as it is, creeping downstairs with it. You took a long time with the clown inside, made it all sorts of garish colours and the face as creepy as you could. Not that that’s difficult, with clowns! Fucking clowns. You’re pretty sure the years of confusion between you and your Dad about that whole topic has left you with a minor phobia of them, which is awkward when you go through spates of being more magician than comedian and work kid’s parties.

There’s been a few guys who gave you worried looks, and you only realised afterwards you’d been staring at them with murderous intent.

Fucking… _clowns_.

But he deserves this, does mister high and mighty in 313! He deserves it, and it’s with a smile on your face you post it, flinching when it thuds onto the mat but sighing in relief when you don’t hear it open.

With a snicker, you rush back upstairs, and even though you should sleep you find you can’t, staying awake with an ear cocked to the floor, just in case.

It’s all worth it several hours later, when a shriek that could shatter glass erupts from downstairs, and you hear muffled storming and swearing as you laugh loud enough your sides hurt and you just _know_ he can hear you back.

There’s an angry bang on the floor and you just guffaw back, because you both know what all this means, and the letter that you find on your mat an hour later only confirms it, and makes you grin so broadly your cheeks hurt, though you can’t place quite _why_.

Dear the smartass with the cute buck teeth,

I hope you realise that this means war.


	2. Something's Gotta Give

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The war heats up, John has visitors, and someone takes matters into their own hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((Thank to my editors [AR](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lil_Hal/) and [Jordan](http://theprettypinks.tumblr.com/) for help with this chapter you are both beautiful people.))
> 
> SO apparently more people like this fic than I thought and I'm possibly going to be making this a series of small fics, so watch this space (and let me know in the comments if you have an opinion on the matter). You're all lovely people and thank you for all the kudos and comments, they have been making my days!
> 
> Onwards~!

Dear the watcher of unwatchable things,

Alright you asshole, let’s have a serious talk about what happened last night.

Now, I’ve put up with your shit. I have tried so very fucking hard to stay cool about this, but then you pulled out all the stops and proved once and for all you’re in this just to cause me misery and are also the most magnificently dickish piece of shit I have ever had the luxury of living nearby, which took some doing, trust me.

So, oh movie maestro. Let’s talk about Soul Plane.

I refuse to accept any human being could possibly watch that film for pleasure, so I must conclude you are either a sadist, a masochist, motherfucking blind and deaf, were in fact wearing heavy duty ear plugs the whole time, or are actually some kind of hellspawn bent only on causing wanton destruction with the use of cinema so bad I had to exorcise the memories from my brain with a bible, two priests, and a fucking sledgehammer. There is nothing good about that film other than its short run time. There is no part of that film anyone can bring joy from other than the moment the credits roll and the agony is at an end.

Everything about that film offended, repulsed, and reduced me to tears, pining for the days when I was free of this nightly punishment. Did I wrong you in some past life? Do you irrationally hate everyone who lives one floor below you? Do you really, really think you are doing me a favour, much like a child colours a freshly painted wall with crayons because they believe they are helping? Should I resent you or pity you? I simply don’t know anymore.

What I do know is if I ever hear the Snoopest of Dogg’s sultry tones through the floor again, I will set fire to your television, home, and everything you love. While laughing. Oh, how I’ll laugh.

Yours, the guy still trying to get the massacred ‘hipness’ out of his head in apartment 313.

dear mister invisible douche,

i was avoiding doing the whole stupid writing letters thing that’s only done by stupid people who live in stupid apartment 313. i wasn’t going to do it! because it is dumb, as are you. but then you did the thing, and no movie would be enough to get across how i feel right now, so i gave in and put pen to paper to fulfill my side of the weird hate pen pal thing you’ve been trying to start.

so i was going to come down and sit on the stairs in a totally non-weird way because i just needed some air, right? which is a completely normal thing for a guy to do! i walked out the door, and that was fine! until whatever freaky motion detectors you had there tripped, and suddenly that stupid puppet dropped from the ceiling onto my face. i stumbled and guess what! there was a skateboard at the top of the stairs, but you already knew that, didn’t you?? i mean thanks for padding the stairs like a thoughtful asshole, but when i reached the bottom to a stupid note saying ‘it keeps happening’, i realised you’re the biggest dick i’ve never met and wanted to write a note to thank you for helping me reach that incredible conclusion.

in other news, you still suck!!!

your friendly neighbourhood movie lover who is seriously much better than you in every way, the dude in apartment 413.

Dear the worst letter writer I’ve ever met,

This is it. This is officially it. You have crossed the line in the sand between humane and violating the Geneva Convention. I am so done with you I can’t ever look at this letter as I write it, because it just makes me have flashbacks to the horrors of last night, and I can’t deal with that.

Mortal Kombat. Annihilation. Street Fighter. Alone, one would have been punishment enough, but no! You savage beast, you wicked monster, you had to play them back to back, and I’m amazed the shitty plots and terrible acting didn’t put me in some sort of coma from which only a decent film could wake me. At first, I tried to be strong, but as the night drew on I found myself huddled on the front lines of shittastic movies, nothing to protect me from the brutal assault on my taste. My suffering was great. With barely a wisp of sanity left, I struggled on, wincing at every poorly delivered monologue, crying with every agonizing attempt at inspiring empathy, clutching my heart with every cringe worthy, supposedly ‘witty’ exchange. By the time the films drew to a close I was a changed man, changed by the horrors my ears had been subjected to, forever unable to shake the memories of that tragic night.

Drastic times, drastic measures. As creativity didn’t work, I’ll just have to apply some blunt force.

Laugh it up while you can, dickhole.

Yours, he you torment with your every messed up movie night, the guy in apartment 313.

.:.

You’ve got so caught up in your ongoing war with the asshole downstairs that you don’t remember you’re expecting guests until you get a knock on your door, opening it to an armful of Jade and a bottle of some way too expensive vintage of wine for a simple visit being pressed into one of your flailing hands by Rose.

Before you’ve pulled yourself together enough to manage a proper greeting, the girls and Dave pass you by, and you shut the door in bemused silence, then head over to where they’ve all taken residence on your couch, settling on the floor yourself.

You sheepishly tell them you don’t have anything ready, on account of the whole forgetting they were coming thing. Before you’ve even finished talking, Dave has his phone out, opening an app up to order a large pizza after a general consensus is reached on what to put on it. Rose arches an eyebrow at you as he falls quiet again, tapping away, and she asks whatever has had you so fascinated that you forgot plans made only a month ago. You shrug back. _Things_. Things have had you fascinated.

"Because that really is such a clear and concise answer, John. All of my questions have well and truly been satisfied thanks to all of that information you have given me."

"John!" Jade exclaims, leaning forward with eyes widened by some kind of realisation. "You asshole, you totally have a girlfriend and didn’t tell us!"

"What? No!" Your protestations are silenced when she thrusts out an accusing finger towards your shelves, and you don’t need to look around to know she’s pointing at the now quite sizeable pile of envelopes sat there. Oh. Ha, right, you probably should have moved those! What with all the glitter and rainbow colours and ponies and kittens, they probably _do_ look pretty incriminating. But that’s not what they are at all! They’re the polar opposite of that!

"Look, Jade, those aren’t what you-"

"About time." Dave interrupts, and you’re getting _really_ worried by the expressions on their faces. "Only took you forty years-"

"Hey! I’m only-" You stop, and have to work it out, because after twenty one the years sort of… got away from you. Just as the Texan stifles a snicker you punch the air triumphantly. "I’m thirty six! Which isn’t forty at all! I’m still totally young, I _am_!"

"Look at you go you young spry thing. Us old coots at a whole thirty seven are just marvelling at your whippersnapper antics."

You answer him with a highly mature middle finger, and he snickers and lounges back across your seat, though the slight furrow of his brow behind his shades makes you well aware he isn’t anywhere near as calm as he looks. When you squint, you just make out his narrow eyes, fixed over on the envelopes with an intensity even Rose couldn’t manage.

You think that might worry you, just a tiny bit.

"I thought you were proud of your maturity, John." Rose enquires, tapping a thoughtful finger to her chin. "After all, we _all_ recall the great struggles that went into acquiring your beloved facial hair, which you insisted was required to make you more of a man."

The struggles that went into your precious moustache were _totally_ worth it, and you cover it protectively, giving her a little glare. There’s no need to bring that into this. It’s practically a holy relic, too perfect for the eyes of mere mortals!

Well, maybe not quite _that_ good.

But it _is_ a very nice moustache.

"John put your hand down, I’m hardly going to steal it from your face." Rose nudges you with her foot until you relent, then nods over to the spot still being fixated on by your other guests. "If those are not what they appear, what are they? You seemed rather nervous when they were noticed. Are you _sure_ they aren’t from an eligible, interested party?"

Her eyebrows do a little infernal bounce at you, and everything from her little smirk to the pointed lack of a gender in her sentence annoys you. You roll your eyes.

"If you _have_ to know, they’re letters from my neighbour, who is a massive asshole and won’t be mentioned again."

"Oh? Oh no, John, I think he _will_ be mentioned." It doesn’t surprise you. You groan and struggle to your feet, going to get glasses for the wine to distract yourself. "So what is he like, other than being the aforementioned gaping waste chute? Odd that you are keeping all his, hm, rather _fabulous_ letters."

"He doesn’t like my movies, and he has this weird puppet thing that got thrown in my face once, and other than that-" You aggressively grab enough glasses, stomping back like the adult you are. "I haven’t actually seen him. Because he’s an invisible douche, and also I think he uses the fire escape and just slams the doors to make me jump."

"Not that you’d possibly have _waited_ to see him, of course."

"Of course not." You answer stiffly, managing a weak smile. "What sort of idiot would do that?"

The smile she gives you is enough to tell you she knows the answer is the sort of idiot who’s tall, wears glasses, and has an awesome moustache who might just _possibly_ be called John Egbert.

Heat rushes across your cheeks as you focus on pouring and offering the wine, bumping Dave’s glass against his knee until he snaps out of his daze.

"So what’s-" His words hitch, and then he carries on, a pause so small you barely notice it. "-this guy downstairs done to you, then?"

You suck in a deep breath, swirling your own glass around to gather their attention, then launch into the tirade you’ve been just _waiting_ to give. You repeat movie critiques and tales of pranks and proudly boast of your successes between complaining about his stupid attempts at winning the gambit or knocking your frankly impeccable film choices.

You get rather caught up in the moment, with big hand gestures and facial expressions and the sort of effort that usually goes into one of your shows. Jade is nodding along with a big smile, and Rose looks interested and chuckles against the lipstick-stained rim of her glass.

Dave just looks increasingly...

_Worried._

"...So then he told me to laugh it up while I could and I'm still waiting for whatever it is he's got planned but I'd bet good money that it's going to suck! Because he sucks, and he's stupid, and that's that."

Jade snorts on a laugh, clapping her hands with amusement. She gives Rose this look and they both snicker and giggle at each other, which leaves you watching with growing confusion.

"What?"

"Nothing, John." Rose hums. "You know, you _do_ sound awfully fond of him."

"Fond of- No I don’t!"

"And now I think about it, you haven’t made one single complaint about being bored of late."

"Well I guess I haven’t, but- but why is that making you smirk at me like that?" That smirk is a bad smirk, and you know it. It’s the equivalent of a little girl singing she knows something you don’t know, and when Rose gets it on her face it’s never a good thing. It’s worse than when you visit your Dad, and he has that sparkle in his eyes that inevitably ends with some elaborate prank you have no hope of avoiding, worse than waking up at 6am to find the door still locked, and Dave somehow on your couch telling you he sees scripts when he closes his eyes and you and him need to do something fun before he dies trying to come up with more stupid jokes and ironic set pieces.

It’s worse because you know how to deal with Dad, and you know just how to cope with a stress-crazed Dave, but Rose swings between serious and silly on the drop of a hat and you never know if that smirk means she’s just thought of a good barb to throw at you when you next talk or if she’s had some great revelatory insight that she won’t share with you until precisely the moment she thinks she has to.

You’re one thousand percent sure it’s the second one this time, because without a single word in response to your question she’s turned to Dave and is asking him about his latest movie, which makes him groan and his expression of ongoing concern turn into one of outright annoyance.

"Don’t. Just fucking don’t. If I hear the words _tight deadlines_ one more time, shit is gonna skip the divorce, murder the handle, and walk straight out with a smile on its face and no more scripts to write ever again..."

The conversation shifts onto them. Dave’s movie, Rose’s work on her new novel, the various new species Jade discovered on her last voyage overseas. You always feel a little… _unimpressive_ when they get onto those things. What do you have to compare? Some new tricks, a few new places you did a routine, and it went down well?

Well no, you _are_ a pretty popular guy on the circuit, and your tricks and gags are the best! They’re just not exactly Hollywood, or getting your work on the front cover of National Geographic.

Not _yet_ , anyway.

"...So then I grabbed the frog and I pulled out my rifle and aimed for the mechanism before the temple door shut me in-"

A knock on your door has you blinking out of your fond fixation on Jade’s excited story, and it takes Dave coughing and saying the word pizza to you for you to remember, leaping up and jogging to the door as the very mention of the word has your stomach audibly growling with abruptly remembered hunger. You pull it open with a smile, and find a short tan boy outside who looks half your age and has the box already ready in his hands, offering it up to you with an awkward grin. The moment your fingers touch it he’s already halfway to stepping away, and figuring he’s in a rush you just give him a thanks instead of the normal chatter you like to engage people in, getting what you take as a thankful nod before he heads down the stairs two at a time.

Slightly bemused, you close the door again, then carry the box over to where the others are waiting, passing it to Dave before you go and grab plates.

You hear the rustle of cardboard, and then Jade makes a noise that almost makes you drop the plates, just managing to keep hold of them after a desperate fumble. You ask what’s up and don’t get an answer, other than a small squeak you place as coming from Dave. They’re all staring into the box, and there’s a creeping sense of dread in the pit of your stomach as you move to look with them in the thick, mortified silence broken when you approach by Jade breaking out into loud, borderline hysterical laughter.

The mortification is pretty well deserved.

The pizza is under a plastic sheet, which you’re pretty thankful for given what’s resting atop it. The first thing that assaults your eyes is the bright golden bow lovingly tied with a tag hanging from it that’s a mess of ponies and glitter and familiar swirly writing.

Inexplicably, it’s only _after_ you notice the obvious signs of a certain person that you really take in what it’s tied around, and the moment you do you practically squeak and slam the box shut, whipping it out of Dave’s hands and scurrying to the kitchen with it, where you open it again and feel your face redden considerably.

You’re aware it’s _some_ kind of dildo. It’s not a normal one, the shape is just _weird_ , and it’s a deep blue with a blotchy golden pattern on it, the base pitch black. It’s the right sort of material, you think, and definitely inherently _phallic_. You’ve just never seen a dick that looks like the top has been squashed out flat.

Some part of you notes redundantly that you did not, in fact, order dick with your pizza.

That same part of you is what makes you reach a hand into the box to lift the tag, not caring about the coating of sparkling dust it leaves across your fingertips.

To my favourite neighbour, from the princess still awaiting his rescue.

You pull the tag sharply off and promptly wrap the whole thing up in the plastic, shoving it in a kitchen drawer so it’s somewhere you don’t have to stare at it in horror anymore. The pizza is dished up, and you carry it back to your friends, quietly adding the tag to the top of the envelope pile.

Jade is still laughing, wheezing her way through every giggle and guffaw, and Rose has joined her with quieter chuckles hidden politely behind one hand. Dave just looks as flabbergasted and horrified as you feel, and shoves the pizza you give him into his mouth with a quiet desperation you appreciate.

"Oh my God, _John_ -" Jade gasps between bursts of mirth, to which you whine quite childishly, slamming on the floor and hearing a laugh to match hers somewhere below you.

"Shut up! I _knew_ that pizza guy looked suspicious!" Stupid pizza guy. Stupid neighbour! "I- I- That asshole in 313 put a weird dick on my pizza! Who even _does_ that?"

"Who indeed?" Rose muses, mouth twitching. "And I think you’ll find that it is a horse cock."

Dave chokes on his pizza, and Jade quickly administers a few heavy hits to his back.

"What?" You splutter at Rose, who nods curtly back, a teacher amused by confused children.

"It was modeled after a horse. If I am correct, it is an expensive present. You should savour it, John. It was clearly chosen for you with affection, given the money and effort that went into it."

"Oh my God." Dave wheezes, covering his face with his hands.

"Effort? What _effort_?" Beyond bribing the pizza guy, you guess, which you’re still trying to puzzle out. What kind of pizza delivery man gets asked to put a dick in the pizza box and says _yes_?

"Well, other than the delightful bow and penmanship on that tag, I couldn’t help but notice that the blue was chosen to match your eyes."

You aren’t sure you how you feel about that.

"And of course that means he took the time to not only notice your eye colour, but become well acquainted with it."

You _really_ aren’t sure how you feel about that.

"Not to mention, ah, _princess_?"

And suddenly this isn’t a thing you want to talk about _at all_!

"N-No!" You stammer, waving your hands emphatically. "No! It’s not like that, Rose, it was a stupid thing he said before and-"

"John has a _boyfriend_!" Jade sing-songs at you, clasping her hands. "Even if he’s _super_ dorky and sends you pizza-dicks!"

"Jade! He isn’t my boyfriend, he’s an asshole!"

"The lady doth protest too much, methinks." That’s it. You’re going to die. Rose sounds smug and is bouncing her eyebrows, and you are going to drop dead right in front of them from embarrassment. Your only response is to start eating your pizza with all the gusto Dave did, and the girls giggle and twitter to one another, while you far more sensible men sit in a silence filled with mouthfuls of food and awkward glances.

Thankfully, they don’t make you suffer too long, after that.

Jade hugs you tightly as she leaves for some flight or other she has to catch tomorrow, and Rose heads out just after with a knowing smile and all her best wishes for your ongoing little _thing_ with your _princess_ that leaves you stammering and shooing her out the door.

Dave gets up more sedately and stops in the doorway, opening and shutting his mouth a few times.

"Yo, John?" He says eventually, reclining back on the frame. "I was wondering if I could finally cash in that shitty movie night you’ve been bugging me to do for months. I know I said it was a dumb idea and shit, but I had an epiphany, and it seems like a great idea all of a sudden, so how about Friday you choose the shittiest movies you can bear to subject me to and we do the thing?"

"That’d be great, dude!" It would be awesome! Time with Dave is always pretty cool, and lately he’s been so worked up with his script you didn’t think you’d get any time with him at all. "What made you change your mind?"

"Eh, y’know. Reasons and shit." He straightens his body then straightens his suit, giving you a nod as he swivels to saunter down the stairs. You watch him go and you’re glad you do, because he stops halfway down, turning to look back at you.

"You mind if I bring a plus one, Egbert?"

"Go ahead!" A thought occurs, and you purse your lips. "Wait. Are you going to bring Karkat? Because I _do_ like your boyfriend, Dave, but I can’t stand him complaining about unrealistic romances in my _action_ films."

"Nah, not him." He continues down in a trot, waving over his shoulder and basically confirming he’s going to be a dick and not actually tell you who his _plus one_ will be. "Later, John."

You watch him to the bottom of the stairs, then head back in to clear up, and only realise much later that you never heard him leave through the building’s front door.

.:.

You go through your normal routine, setting the film into the player and leaving it looping through the menu to provide you with a soundtrack that you can pop popcorn to. Dave is due at eight, which means he’ll arrive about ten minutes later, insisting somehow it makes him more cool when you’re both totally aware he’s a massive dork.

Just in case, you still get ready on the optimistic off chance he actually turns up when he told you he would, and at eight you find yourself sitting and strumming your fingers over your knees, more excited about watching a movie with your best bro of a lifetime than you’d actually expected.

Dave _never_ does stuff like this with you anymore, he hasn’t since the two of you were still teenagers. Tonight is weird, out of the blue, and _great_!

It genuinely catches you off guard when moments after you sit down to wait, there’s a knock at the door.

It can’t be Dave, because he’s never on time, and you’re certain of that up until the moment you pull it open and find him standing there looking just as uncomfortable with his promptness as you feel. You greet him, but before you can rib him about finally discovering the secret art of punctuality he clears his throat and draws your attention to beside him with a small jab of his thumb.

There’s a young kid - alright, a _man_ at a push, but clearly so much younger than you that kid feels like a better word - you don’t recognize standing next to Dave, his blonde hair neatly styled back into a loosely spiked, sweeping do in what you guess is probably an attempt to match the shades on his face, somehow even _more_ ridiculous than Dave’s, all sharp angles and way-too-far-off-his-face points.

They’re also way more _lame_ , no matter how much cool the dude’s trying to exude standing like that. He’s somehow managed to look even more casual than Dave’s typical t-shirt and slacks combo, with worn jeans and a black wifebeater that hangs from his fairly slim frame. It shows off all the assorted freckles his skin is dusted with, and the whole ensemble just makes him look... _young_. Probably younger than he is. Possibly.

It takes you a few seconds of staring to _realise_ you haven’t moved your eyes away from him, still wondering who the hell this kid Dave brought with him actually is. The thought that perhaps staring at the random kid your best bro has dragged along isn’t exactly befitting of an excellent host has just occurred to you when said kid nods once, curt and stiff, in what you’d hazard is considered a polite greeting wherever he’s from.

It definitely isn’t enough where he is right now, though!

He gets offered your hand and name with the enthusiasm you always try to approach new people with, and after staring your hand down like he’s trapped in some kind of standoff with it, he takes it and shakes it with a firm grip that you know you could easily crush, but don’t. Dad taught you better than that.

Dave is the one who ends up throwing his name into the mix, sighing heavily before giving a shrug of his shoulders.

"John, this is Dirk, my baby brother. Dirk, this is John, my best friend."

There’s an edge to the sentence you really don’t get, but from the look they exchange, you're certain it wasn’t meant for you. You were aware of Dave’s brother, just like you’re aware of Rose’s daughter, but they aren’t really kids you’ve ever met. Well, Roxy you’ve been introduced to about twice, but nowadays she’s off learning sciencey things, and Rose is often busy touring and doing signings, so the most you hear of her is Rose’s typical updates online or in the letters she still insists on mailing you the old fashioned way.

Dave’s brother, by comparison, has always been some kind of mythical figure. You knew he was there, and Dave sometimes threw him into a story or passing comment, but you simply hadn’t been to Dave’s apartment since before he suddenly became a legal guardian, and he never seemed comfortable dragging his bro out to meet you, for one reason or another. The excuses changed every time. Finally seeing him in the flesh feels a little like laying eyes on a yeti. If you’d been asked beforehand, you would’ve rated the chances of it ever happening as just as ridiculous, too.

And yet here he is. Dirk. Small, clearly as much of a dork as Dave, and frowning at you because _you’re staring at him again_ and you catch yourself way too late. A nervous laugh does little to shift his obvious, puzzling fixation back on yourself. Some stereotypical nonsense about how lovely it is to meet him, and Dave telling you about him before leaves you, and the twitch of his brow is enough to gather how little he believes either of those things.

Then, with that over, he’s already passed you - even though you _swear_ he didn't move. Dave squeezes between your body and the wall to follow him with a rapid apology, leaving you standing uncertainly in the doorway of your suddenly very filled home.

"Just make yourselves comfortable." It’s a pretty pointless statement, you note as you shut the door, because Dave is already slung out over your couch and Dirk has gone straight for the pile of DVD cases on your television stand, picking them up and making little sounds in the back of his throat as he looks through each one in turn. They sound disapproving, and after a particularly loud one Dave snickers, picking up one of your cushions and chucking it at his brother’s head to get Dirk’s attention.

In silence, the cases are deposited back where he took them from, and he wanders over to the couch, sitting pointedly at the other end of it, so the only room for you is between them.

You take up that room, and there’s plenty of it given how small the Striders are in comparison to you, as slight and short as you are broad and tall. You’ve always been quite fond of how different you are to Dave. You look like a comedy duo and act like one too when you aren’t both being awkward and quiet thanks to the pretty much mute third wheel staring at your television like it might turn into a monster at any moment.

It doesn’t do that, though. It continues being a television, showing the suffering Dave willingly signed them both up to, and as you reach for the remote you catch them both exchange a look and pull an identical, _we can do this_ face. You’re aware Dave knows about your actual taste in films to realise that you wouldn’t normally watch this, that you chose it specially for him to enjoy with you. And by enjoy, you mean _suffer_. And by _him_ , you mean Dave _and_ a certain asshole who will have the joy of getting to listen in.

"John I’m gonna straight up say that you’re a dick and seriously, Batman and Robin. Nope." Dave shakes his head and tries to get the remote off you, so you hold it up high enough his grasping fingers can’t reach it. "Look at least put the volume down so I can dub over it or something."

"No! No talking while the movie is on, unless you’re talking about how _great_ it is." It takes him a few minutes to give up, and when he does you hit play, making sure to crank the volume up as high as it will go. "You’re gonna just love this, Dave! It’s just as shitty as the movies _you_ write."

"Excuse _you_ , my films are nothing but perfection and ironic beauty wrapped up in the sickest special effects you’ve ever seen. Not a single Bat-nipple in sight, and God fucking _damn_ , are they better for it. Don’t mistake intentional shit for whatever whacked up garbage this is, John, that’s like mistaking the Mona Lisa for a selfie. It’s a whole different amount of time and effort going into producing a picture of someone’s face, and I’m pretty sure the Louvre will confirm that makes a hella difference."

"Dave, your films are definitely not anything that can be mentioned at the same time as the Louvre."

"John, shut up and concentrate on this godawful movie." Dave elbows you, and though you snicker you do as he asks, glancing sideways at the other Strider as an afterthought. He’s staring at the screen with a distinct air of distaste, arms folded over his chest and eyebrows dancing through a range of emotions while his mouth stays resolutely shut. The ridiculous faces he’s pulling make you chuckle, and when he looks back at you you just give him a grin, which fades pretty quickly once you notice his cheeks go pink and his attention switches rapidly back to the film.

Um.

...Huh.

The movie is just as terrible as you knew it would be, and you laugh at it, nudge Dave at the best of the worst parts, and generally enjoy how awful every little bit of it really is. You’ve always been able to savour bad movies. There’s something about how bad they are that kind of makes them good! It’s been a great weapon in the war on mister high and mighty downstairs, and you wonder belatedly if he’s having as much fun as you are, cocking an ear to the floor and frowning at the lack of his usual bangs.

When you settle back after that, Dirk is watching you, and you give him an apologetic grin and a shrug before you keep watching the travesty unfolding on your screen.

By the time the film finishes, Dave’s face is trapped in a perpetual cringe, and Dirk has a hand loosely covering his mouth, his eyebrows down. You’re still smiling, because it did exactly what you wanted it to! Next time Dave agrees to a movie night, he better remember what he’s getting into.

"Yo." Dave says as soon as you reach for the remote during the credits, getting to his feet and stretching in such a way his knees both crack. "Before you think about putting me through worse hell than that, though I’m gonna be honest, I doubt a worse movie exists, lemme go piss and also sob where you can’t hear me about all the crimes against my eyes and brain that you just put me through."

"You’re not six, Dave, you don’t need my permission to use the bathroom." You point out, and he snickers.

"Hear that, Dirk? You gotta ask."

Dirk purses his lips back, and Dave swans off, leaving the two of you alone, which is kind of awkward. Mostly because other than the strum of his fingers against the arm of your couch, he’s totally silent and doing nothing but staring at the briefly empty screen.

You aren’t sure what to say, or if you should say anything, until he clears his throat and makes you jump with the soft but unexpected sound.

"They could at least have made fucking icicles that didn’t wobble worse than a vibrator made of jello."

You weren’t expecting those to be the first words he said, or for his voice to be so _deep_ , given he doesn’t look like he could manage that pitch. When you look at him, he’s staring back at you, cheeks that same pink and expression more controlled.

"You said no talking about how shit the movie was while we suffered through its runtime, but shit’s over now, and it’s all fair game." He explains, seeming to take your silent staring as confusion. "And if Dave thinks Bat-nipples are the worst thing in that movie, he clearly wasn’t paying attention. Shoddy plot, shoddy acting, shoddy props, shoddy editing." One by one he counts them off on his fingers, "I mean, did you catch the bit they just played and rewound a shot a couple of times in a row like no one would notice?"

"It wasn’t _that_ bad-" You lie, and he tilts his head to look straight at you over his shades with all the disbelief that statement deserves.

"No, it wasn’t that bad, it was _worse_." Dirk holds his hands towards the screen and spreads his fingers, and you look back at it even though it’s empty. "Let’s see, between decent actors somehow simultaneously having some sort of amnesia specifically targeting their acting abilities and what could have been a good looking film- No, I can’t even say that with a straight face, that was never going to look good, it looked like a fetishist’s fantasy, and that was apparently totally what they were going for. That film was painful in all the worst ways, because it wasn’t even bad in a good way, it was just bad in a _bad_ way, and I can’t believe it made release without anyone saying whoa there, this is a pile of steaming horseshit, maybe we should rethink this whole fucking travesty before it goes on our permanent records and we can never undo it."

"Whoa, dude, no! Okay, it has problems sure, but it’s a dumb fun film, those don’t need to be flawless." To be honest, you’re not sure why you’re defending it, but the need to wells up in you at his smug wall of words. Dirk’s hands drop to fold over his chest again, and you face him, resisting a bizarre urge to fix your own hands on your hips. "Sure it’s kinda silly or whatever, but that’s the point of a good dumb flick! You don’t have to think too hard, just sit back and enjoy it, weird outfits and wobbly props and all."

"I appreciate that, but there’s dumb fun and then there’s coma-inducing idiocy, and I want you to take a good long look at this thing and then tell me which you think it is, because I’m pretty sure it’s quite a few IQ points short of dumb." He waves off your snort, jabbing a finger at the black expanse so recently filled with the movie. "Like I’m down with dumb fun, I can go with dumb fun, I can even go with shitty cinema if it’s of the terrible depths of shit like Birdemic, but _this_? This is that uncomfortable layer where it’s just not good, and it isn’t bad enough to loop round and become good again. It’s the sort of film that can’t look at itself in the mirror, the sort agents sue to get taken off an actor’s credits, it’s a horrorshow when it isn’t meant to be, too awkward to be funny, and I can’t let you defend it when we both know it’s painfully bad whatever your mouth is saying to the contrary."

"It isn’t _that_ bad!"

"Look me in the eye and tell me forming those words doesn’t make your brain scream in agony because if you seriously believe them, you’re more messed up than this shit’s continuity guy. It’s terrible. It’s horrifying. In every poll of worst films ever taken, I bet this would win hands down. Like there are shitty films, okay? And then there are _shitty_ films. Think of the children films. Oh God why did I ever want to watch this films. Guess what, bro, this is one of those ones, and I’m pretty sure subjecting kids to it would be considered child cruelty most places, so be glad I’m an adult."

Child cruelty? Your eyebrows rise, although for some reason you’re trying not to smile. "Man, if you can’t deal with a stupid movie, maybe you deserve all that suffering it put you through." A laugh catches in your throat, and you clear it instead, rolling your eyes. "Maybe you _should_ count as a child with the way you’re moaning."

"I’m not moaning, I’m raising legit criticisms about a steaming turd that puts forward a strong case for critics being allowed to give negative star ratings." Dirk nudges you with an elbow so lightly you almost miss the contact, but the way the young man flushes a little immediately after pretty much confirms it had happened. "You’re the one still childishly defending it rather than accepting you’re wrong. Then again," He adds, and for the first time he actually gives an honest smirk. "I’d expect no less from _you_ -"

All of a sudden, he’s silent, face blank, staring straight at you while your mind catches up with what he said.

Wait, _what_?

"Uh-" You only manage the one word, because as soon as it’s out, Dave is slumping down beside you, and you break off and glance around at him. By the time you look back to Dirk, he’s fixed on the screen again, tense and emotionless, and when you nudge him, he just gives an almost imperceptible shake of his head, which you respect even if it confuses the fuck out of you.

Why does he expect anything of you? Has Dave told him about you?

That _must_ be it, right?

You fidget for longer than you normally would, and Dave raises a hand and lightly slaps the back of your head to get your attention, raising an eyebrow over his shades.

"You gonna put on the next one or what?" He asks curiously, and you nod, standing and quickly setting to it, ignoring the feeling someone is staring at you intently. You fumble in the next disc and set it to loop on the menu as you move back and sit between them, and as you settle down and press play you feel like you interrupted some silent _thing_ between them from the way they both abruptly straighten in their seats and silently fixate on the movie.

You sneak the odd glance at Dirk, now and then.

For some reason, you’re happy that this time his blush fails to disappear.

.:.

By the time the movie night ends and you’re depositing a long since emptied popcorn bowl in your sink, Dirk has been talking enough you’re used to his voice, even if so far it’s only been to comment on the action onscreen. Whatever his earlier remarks meant is yet to be clarified, but you’re pretty sure there’s a Dave-related explanation. That’s what makes the most sense, after all.

Messing around with Dave and Dirk, once the latter joined in, has been fun, and you’re smiling and humming as you dust your hands off and stroll back to the brothers, giving them both a broad smile.

"We should all do this again sometime." In fact, you’re already thinking of movies to watch, and less painful ones too. Dirk perks up just enough to notice as he hears the _all_ , but he does it in that weird ‘cool’ way Dave does too, this little raise of his brows and relaxing of his lips. You fight the urge to snicker, especially when you contrast it to how stoic he was trying to be before the films.

Speaking of the films, there hasn’t been a single banging on the floor, tonight. You glance downwards as you think it, inwardly denying you feel a little disappointed, before shaking your head and focusing on them again.

"It was pretty fun." Dave concedes, and shares a grin with you when you look at him. "Hey, you wanna walk me to my car?"

"There I was thinking you were a grown up, Dave." You answer, but you can’t help but notice Dirk shoot him a look. It’s one of their silent glances that packs a non-verbal punch, and this one is saying _fuck no_. Whatever refusal that was about to leave you stops, because that expression is enough to spark a more compelling curiosity. "...But if you want, I can totally do that."

The smile Dave gives you is enough to know he really, _really_ does.

Following them is a weird experience, because they’re the kind of people who fall straight into step without needing any adjustment period, who work to the same beat and leave you feeling like you’re the one kid at the back of a band who’s totally off time. In the few seconds it takes to reach the stairs, Dirk goes through a whole cycle of emotions, from straight-backed and confident to hunched over to looking like he’s going to punch Dave and then right back through resignation to confidence again. He’s more expressive than Dave, with his body, although Dave is more emotional with his face, but you can see the similarities in them. It’s pretty interesting, actually.

You’re so into thinking about it that you nearly walk into them both, when they stop dead on the next floor down.

The stumble didn’t mess you up, but you smooth your shirt down anyway. It takes you a second to register the door you’re outside, and your confusion swells, even as something in the back of your head flips a light on above itself and goes _oh_.

"Well?" Dave drawls, looking across at Dirk, and you follow his gaze because you’re not sure what else to do at this point.

Calmly, Dirk pats his jean pockets, sticking a hand into one of the back ones and pulling out a keyring.

The rest of your mind doesn’t catch up until he steps up, slides the key into a lock of particular note, and twists the door open.

_Wait._

" _You_." It’s a statement, not a question, and he turns back towards you as he casually twirls the keyring around his finger, reclining back against the doorframe.

"Well done, blue eyes, you caught my ass, and with only a ton of help, too." He gives you a smirk and then hops up, catching the keys in his fist and grabbing the inside handle, turning so his back is mostly towards you. "I hope it’s as fine as you were hoping."

With a suggestive slap, he’s closed the door, leaving you staring at it with an expression halfway between relief and unbridled annoyance.

Him.

_Him._

"Yo, John, you alright there? You look like you’re gonna murder the door." For a moment, you’d genuinely forgotten Dave was still there and look at him to see him doing a very poor job of hiding the smirk on his face. "Something wrong, bro?"

"Dave, how would you feel if I murdered your _brother_?" You ask carefully, and he snorts, patting you on the back.

"John, how about we actually get down to my car before you throw around death threats? Whatever beef you have with Dirk ain’t got nothing to do with me."

"You knew, didn’t you?" Of _course_ he did! "Oh my God, _that’s_ why you looked so worried!"

"Maybe I did, but thanks to me, you finally caught the elusive wild asshole in his natural habitat, so don’t you dare fucking complain." The Texan is already walking away, and with a final glare at the door that’s frustrated you for an eternity, you follow him, shoving your hands deep into your pockets and stomping like a little kid, as Dave rapidly points out to you. That stops straight away. You might be annoyed at him, but you're not _that_ immature.

When you arrive at the car, your arms are folded against the cool night air, and Dave's amusement has dropped to something a bit more serious.

"Hey," He says in the same voice he asked for the movie night, stopping with the door open and one hand on the top of it. "Look, be gentle. Dirk's a complex web of irony, shitfuckery, and emotion. If you seriously hurt him, I'll wreck you, John, 'cause you might be my friend but he's my bro, and I give a lotta shits about him."

What the fuck is he talking about? You were joking, before, and when you assure him so, Dave dismisses it with an infuriating wave of his hand like he knows something you don't. He tells you this isn’t about that and to try not to be an asshole, and then he climbs in and shuts the door like that cryptic bullshit was a full explanation.

There are odd moments you remember him and Rose are related, and this is one of them. With a nodded approval you don't understand or want, Dave has pulled away, and you glare at his number plate until it turns out of sight.

A few seconds of silent glaring pass before you head inside, moving much slower as you wander up the stairs. Something about the way Dave was acting is still buzzing around your head, an annoying fly that just won’t go away, and you barely notice how high you are until you find yourself standing outside that one door on that one floor and give it a long, judgmental stare.

Then with a quiet _hmmph_ you move to go home, but something stops you with your foot on the bottom step.

You’ve always been pretty sure you disliked the asshole in 313. At least, you told yourself you did, over and over until it felt true, just like all the other things you’ve told yourself before. You’d tell yourself you disliked him even when you laughed at his letters or grinned at whatever ridiculous stationery he’d chosen for you today. You’d tell yourself that when you sat and ate reheated pizza and laughed, now that embarrassment had given way to a grudging admiration of that spectacular Gambit.

You’d insist to anyone that you disliked him, while you sat on the stairs and got excited about the idea of actually catching the only person who’d actually made your day to day life _fun_ again, night after night.

With a weird sensation of weight lifting from your shoulders, you step down again, turning and sitting on the stairs with your gaze on the floor.

A few minutes later, his door unlocks, though you don't look up until a mug of coffee is being wafted in front of your eyes. You take it with a muttered thanks, and Dirk - tasteless, one of a kind asshole Dirk, no longer a distant princess in a tower - sits next to you with a carton of kid’s orange juice, sucking on the straw as he watches you with the same intensity he had every moment he thought he could get away with during the movies.

"Y’know, dude, this has been fun."

It takes a lot of effort to keep the serious expression on your face.

"Plus I mean those noises you make when I run past you are ridiculous."

You snort before you catch yourself, covering your mouth and then mumbling that okay, maybe they are, a little.

He sucks up another mouthful of drink, before gesturing at you with the carton. "I’m gonna be honest, your movies have grown on me. When you stopped playing them I kinda missed them."

"So why did you keep writing me letters tearing them to shreds?" You finally look up at him, and he’s got his chin on his hand, giving you a smirk that’s almost a smile. Your mouth twitches back, and nope, none of that thank you. You are being a serious adult who is annoyed right now, you’re not enjoying this, just like you haven’t enjoyed any of the rest of it.

"It was our thing." He explains, shrugging one shoulder and making his head bob. "Plus when I wrote you letters, you played me movies. Call me a masochist if you want, but I wasn’t going to _really_ complain."

A giggle slips out of you, and the effort of catching it means you lose control of your mouth, which instantly splits into a broad grin that is way less annoyed than you’re still weakly telling yourself you should be. Dirk’s smirk finally levels up into what you’re going to call a smile, and his cheeks are pink again as he watches you.

"You never did write me that list of decent films." The thought comes to you from nowhere, that memory of back when all this silliness started, and Dirk looks genuinely surprised you remember. _You’re_ genuinely surprised you remember, but then again with how often you’ve read his letters back to chuckle at them, it’s probably not as shocking as you think.

"I didn’t, no." Dirk’s brows drop, then rise again, his head lifting so his hand can drop to the stair between you. "I could lend you some if you want. It may shock you to learn I watch films all the time, on account of me playing them so only the intended audience can actually hear them."

"You were part of my intended audience."

"Eventually I was, sure." He snickers, and oh no, that smile on your face is starting to feel very silly, but it won’t go away no matter how hard you try. "My best bro and I have a big collection between us, and he has a habit of leaving them at mine. Jake - you actually met him, when he ferried you delicious hot goodness with the best topping on the menu." Of _course_ it was one of his friends who he got to put the dick on the pizza. That makes sense now. You almost slap yourself for not realising it before, then cough and pull the conversation back to the movies before you start discussing exotic dildos or something.

"Look, those films, you don’t have to lend them to me. Uh, I mean- How about we watch them together?"

Dirk gives you look from behind his glasses, a look that says _are you asking what I think you’re asking because I sure as fuck don’t want to say the wrong thing here_. You just wait, still smiling, not even sure you _are_ asking what he thinks you are.

"Maybe." He answers eventually, pushing his glasses up his nose with his middle finger.

"Maybe?" You say back, and he laughs, a bright sound that catches you off guard.

Still, it doesn’t leave you as off-balance as him abruptly scooting over so your hips bump, and reaching up with his free hand to press a leather glove against your cheek. Before you can respond to that first touch, he’s used his grip to tug you down to him, and you’re aware of the heat and pressure of his lips on yours before it enters your stunned mind that he’s kissing you, firm and confident and leaving you with no idea of what proper protocol is in this situation.

There’s a jumble of thoughts in your head all at once, a mix of _cute asshole_ and _hate crush_ and _Dave’s brother_.

You promptly tell them all to go fuck themselves, shut your eyes, and kiss him back.

It doesn’t last long, long enough for a pleasant warmth to settle in your chest and a swarm of butterflies to cliché their way into your stomach. When it ends, Dirk just sits back and raises an eyebrow at you, looking totally serene except for the whole fact his cheeks are so red they glow.

"There. You caught me, you got your kiss." He explains, hopping to his feet while you give a little surprised laugh, remembering the letter and the promise you’d always thought was made in jest. "Now I’m gonna go put together some films, and tomorrow night maybe we could watch them."

"Maybe." You reply, the grin on your face not the sort of expression a man of your age should ever have. Something occurs to you, and you laugh again, more relaxed, watching him stroll towards the door. "It feels weird hearing you tell me stuff. You should put all that in writing."

"Should I?" Dirk pauses in his doorway, dramatically waving a hand for attention before he starts scribbling on an imaginary bit of paper in the air before him. "Dear the cat who finally caught the fine ass mouse," He intones, voice proper and clear, which does nothing to help your smile go away. "If you aren’t too busy with coping with the shock of finding out I do in fact have a body and am not just some kind of spectre here only to drive you insane, I’d like to finally show you what a real movie is, perhaps over popcorn and orange crush, that most _romantic_ of meals. I’d say reply to this imaginary letter with some similarly fictional card saying yes or a no, but we both know what you’re going to say, and to be honest, if you refused, I’m pretty sure I could get through your windows in thirty seconds, so don’t expect it to keep me away after how long I’ve waited to get here."

You’re not sure he’s kidding, and you’re not sure you actually mind, for all you think you probably should.

"You rescued the princess and you got your reward, and after writing you a novel on ironically perfect parchments and listening to all the best of the worst you could offer me, I think it’s time we actually did the talking thing and more of the making out thing, if things go pretty well. I mean, I’m just guessing you’d be down with that, but given that was a mutual mack on that went down, the odds seem in my favour, especially with that shit eating grin I’m pretty sure just became a permanent fixture on your cute as hell face."

You aren’t sure when you started liking him, behind all the insistence to the contrary, just like you aren’t sure when the void in your life you refused to admit to actually started to fill up, a little. It isn’t gone yet, oh no, but it feels like maybe, just _maybe_ , you might be on to a way to fix it.

"I’ll be the first to admit romance isn’t my favourite genre, but who knows, maybe if we skip all the clichés, I’d be excited to see where this goes."

So are you, and the thought feels liberating, your eyes tracing his hand finish writing with a flourish.

"Until tomorrow night, then." He smiles and looks at you, and you smile back as he speaks.

"Yours sincerely, Dirk Strider, apartment 313."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One chapter to go! Dorks on dates and le smut next time, my friends.
> 
>  
> 
> _Pssst Seffa, happy one week after your birthday, DirkJohn is the gift that just keeps on giving. ___


	3. The Dating Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has no idea how dates work, or Dirk works, or how things even got to this point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello cherubs! You may notice the /3 has become an /7 because I'm going to have this as a slightly longer fic that covers all the extra little ideas I had, so look forward to that! If you missed it, I did [a Jade/Roxy Drabble](http://prospt.tumblr.com/post/65748848533/drunk-science-with-jade-roxy) from the future of this AU for Swaggie Jay, so that's worth a look.
> 
> Anyway! Dorks on dates! Have fun~

What you did doesn’t hit you until late the next day.

Since humming your way back home and collapsing into your actual bed for once, you’ve been in a heady daze of _Dirk_ , spending part of the morning reading back his letters in his voice, imagining the expressions he’d pull as he wrote them with your films blaring through the ceiling. It’s your _thing_ , after all. It’s how you ended up with a stupid, silly crush on someone you’d never met, and the very idea that he might possibly like you back has left a smile on your face the likes of which haven’t graced it since you were six.

You shower, ring your Dad for a cupcake recipe that has him oozing hopeful suspicions about the possible future of your bachelor status down the phone, and make said cupcakes without even noticing the quiet. The thoughts in your head are enough to keep you company, all jumbled and messy but somehow still wonderful.

It’s only when the day draws on and you start listening for movement below, eyes flicking across your watch with growing frequency, that you stop, and look at yourself, and finally, actually take in the night before.

Your neighbour, who somehow sassed his way into your guarded, earnest affections while you were looking the other way, is Dave’s brother.

For an amount of time you’re still unsure of, your daydreams about him have left you with some kind of crush on someone who was, until now, just gold writing on a page.

You have a crush on a man you barely know and have met exactly once.

Yet that one time you met him, you promptly asked him on what is clearly, irrevocably, a date.

A _date_.

 _You_ asked _Dave’s brother_ on a _date_.

All of a sudden, you have no idea what you’re doing, why you’re doing it, or when Dirk is going to arrive, and stand looking stupid until your brain informs you that you need to ice the cupcakes. In somewhat of a stupor, you do. If you’re going to do the dating thing, no matter how ridiculous your reasoning is, you’re going to do it _right_ , damn it!

Taking a note out of his books, you cover the tops of the cakes with golden icing splotched with blue, chuckling under your breath as you do. You know he’ll know _just_ where that pattern is from, and you’re hoping it’ll amuse him, or at least remind him of the fact his seduction technique was insults and horse dicks.

At least he gets points for originality!

When you’re plating them up you stop and realise that technique apparently _worked._

You have absolutely no idea what you’re doing anymore.

Oddly, you think you might prefer it this way.

.:.

Dirk arrives at exactly eight with a beat on your door and an obnoxiously large bouquet of the most luridly coloured flowers to ever assault your poor eyes. You accept them, mostly because you’re pretty sure he won’t move until you do, and contemplate how best to quietly dispose of them as he does his weird as fuck _thing_ with the moving without moving.

You’re not imagining that, you _can’t_ be! You’ve definitely seen him do it more than once now and it’s going to drive you mad all over again.

The flowers end up in your sink, because there is literally nowhere else that can cope with what Dirk assures you across the room is their _majesty_.

On the plus side, at least it isn’t a sex toy this time.

After that, you’re left in the awkward position of realising you haven’t been on a date or anything remotely resembling one for a good ten years, not including that one definitely ironic time in New York with Dave that neither of you talks about, acknowledges, or has in any way officially thought about since.

The drunken misadventures of your youth have hardly actually prepared you for the active, not a drill situation before you, though. You have a kid of an age you _definitely_ know, because who would have invited him here alone without asking that, sitting on your couch having given you a large bunch of flowers, staring at you and clearly waiting for you to do whatever it is you are supposed to do now. You do not know what that something is. You take a wild guess and sit next to him, and after a tense few moments the judges throw up high scores as Dirk relaxes and shifts his weight to lean more towards you, though there’s still a respectable gap between your shoulders.

"Alright, so I’m going to show you what is pretty much the greatest action film ever made, which I’m expecting you to have already seen, but you haven’t seen it with a patented Strider commentary and let me tell you that’s a whole new level of icing on an already pretty perfectly baked cake." Dirk has the remote in his hand, with the suddenness you’re starting to relate to him, though to be honest given his whole invisible douchebag trick it feels like a pretty natural part of him already. When he brings up the movie menu, you’re assaulted with noise, looped clips, and an abundance of John McClane, all of which have you sitting up more alertly in your seat.

"So I actually have all of the series, but if we’re gonna be honest the first one is the best and right now it’s the only one that matters." You nod, and Dirk leans forward so he’s actually able to see your face, though his is once more thrown into stark relief by the light from the screen. At some point you really need to see him somewhere that isn’t dimly lit, for longer than three seconds. "So buckle up, set your shit taste aside, and prepare to be taken to a heaven filled with explosions, good dialogue, a villain who doesn’t look like a pornstar cosplaying some rip-off anime character, and basically look this is a good movie, this is the bar you should be working to, and we can watch it as loud as you like because for once it won’t have me sobbing under a table waiting for the pain to end."

"You don’t really sob under a table."

"John, you made me suffer _Batman and fucking Robin_. The only reason I didn’t sob under a table was I was too horrified by the Bat-nipples, Bat-dialogue and Bat-visual-fucking-horror to move. I feel a little queasy just thinking about it. It’s like I was violated, John, my taste was violated right in the heart with a shiny black Bat-dick and now only sweet, sweet McClane can wash away the pain." Play is pressed, the movie starts, and before you settle back, he adds. "Plus we may as well start with a classic, right?"

"Start?" You answer distractedly, already focused on the screen with building excitement. "So you want to watch more films with me?"

He says something about first dates implying that more will follow, but you don’t quite catch it. The volume is high, he’s mumbling, and your attention span has always been terrible for anything beyond the movie when you watch a film.

It’s why you don’t notice that at some point the gap between you closes, and his body ends up just resting against yours, your arm along the back of the sofa behind him. You don’t notice the popcorn level in your lap dropping until his hand just idly rests on your knee, instead. The only thing you do notice, once his volume returns to a confident level, is Dirk’s voice, his wonderful voice, which compliments the movie as he gives a sprawling speech that’s part narration, part critique, and part downright silliness. You usually hate films with commentary, let alone someone talking over them like he is - but somehow, it works, and you even nudge the volume down a little so you can soak in his every well-thought out sentence and comment and joke.

For someone who’s used to talking constantly, you find yourself speaking very few words.

It’s not until the credits roll that you wake slowly from your happy movie trance, and all at once the way he’s curled up to you is just _there_ , as are your unanswered questions, and concerns, and the very apparent fact you are once more out of your comfort zone and trying to figure out if now is when you offer him a drink or whatever else you do on dates, if he can even legally drink.

 _Can_ he legally drink?

"How old are you?"

You didn’t mean to ask it quite so bluntly and are disappointed that the smile he’s been sporting since halfway through the film disappears when you do. He raises an eyebrow, and you’re starting to think he’s part Vulcan. His expressions seem to mainly consist of deadpan, casual eyebrow arch, and outbursts of open emotion that he tries to get back under wraps once anyone draws attention to them.

"Old enough," is his first answer, and you glare at him until he does that little head motion you just _know_ is rolling his eyes, just like Dave does. "Does it really matter? I’m old enough to do the horizontal tango and old enough to know what I’d like and what I’d like is to watch films with you so unless you’re going to police the age ratings is it really necessary to know-?"

You inform him it is, and his evasive answers are making you quite worried.

"Look, I’m not underage-"

_Not an answer._

"Eighteen. Practically nineteen." He mutters at you, straightening from where he was sat against you to protectively fold his arms across his chest. "Is that a problem?"

Your first instinct is to cringe at a number that’s lower than you were hoping but right where you expected, and you open and close your mouth a few times before managing to say anything.

"Dirk, do you actually _know_ how old I am?" You hazard, trying to sound as neutral as possible.

The stare you get tells you he understood every implication in that sentence, and that he is about to rip you to shreds for them. You’re flinching _before_ his next stream of words lashes out of his mouth.

"Holy shit, John, no! Of course not, because I wouldn’t _possibly_ have asked Dave questions about you as soon as I knew he was your friend. I wouldn’t dare have broken the weird arcane laws of romance that mean all information about your crush can only be divined through tea leaves and stalking them, and done something so against tradition as _just asked someone._ " His arms are shifting where they’re folded, clearly wanting to gesture, and your eyes flick between them and his surprisingly calm face. "Excuse me while I consult the dating handbook to check the use by date of the average man - oh shit! Looks like it’s thirty five, oh no, guess I’ll get my coat. As for the difference, whoa man, God forbid two consenting adults have a relationship unless they were born within exactly three years of each other. How could I have been so stupid and forget basic things like that? It’s almost like I think it doesn’t fucking matter. How ridiculous!"

"I get it." You mutter weakly, but he isn’t done, finally freeing a hand to poke you hard in the shoulder.

"Friendly reminder we are currently just watching a movie together, and I did not in fact come up the stairs, rip open my coat to reveal a fabulous satin nightgown and swoon onto your lap saying _oh, asshole, take me now!_ I’m not sure what law was passed to restrict the age gap allowed between people watching a film." Dirk pokes you again, frowning, and with his shades in the way you can’t quite tells if he’s annoyed or worried. "Look, if you can bear the thought of having a second date with me - well, unless you suddenly think this is some kind of babysitting gig and are waiting for Dave to come pick me up - I am willing to let you decide what we do and how far anything might go, which makes me feel really weird because I’m pretty sure you’re the one who’s meant to spew that shit at _me_."

You feel very silly as his words end and the moments tick past, and the fact that every second of silence is making his expression turn into what is _definitely_ worry is just making you feel like a dick.

You need to say something, _now_.

"I made cakes?"

You shoot, you miss, and the metaphorical stadium bursts into flame.

Dirk’s expression freezes, and rather than face it you mentally slap yourself all the way over to the kitchen and back again, returning with the plate in hand and all your marbled cakes sitting looking pretty on top of it. It replaces the popcorn on your lap, and without really thinking about it you take one for yourself, nudging him until he takes the one you more carefully pick out for him as well.

It tastes delicious, but it was Dad’s recipe, and to be honest you’d expect no less.

You’re halfway through your second conversation delaying cake when you glance at Dirk, and choke a little on the crumbs in your throat. He’s staring at the first cake he took with an expression of intense suspicion, not having even reached the point of unwrapping it, examining it like it might rear up and bite him at any moment.

You say his name until he looks at you, sitting unable to keep the amusement out of your features. It’s just a cake, you assure him, and he nods slowly. Look, you’re eating from the same batch as him, and it’s totally fine. You haven’t died or anything yet, he can have a little faith! You promise him that none of the cakes on the plate have had anything done to them, gesturing down at them, and give him the best hopeful expression you can manage until he relents, easing off the black casing and taking a bite.

He chews and you grin, before his motions slow and you start to snicker, and then he’s on his feet and running for the kitchen and you’re laughing into your hand, listening to him find the milk and gulp it down.

"You’re an asshole." He announces as he slams the fridge shut, having done enough to wash the burn of chilli powder out of his mouth.

"I told you, none of the cakes on the plate had anything done to them! You never asked about the one in your hand."

Dirk slaps your head on his way back to his seat, and you probably deserve that. It takes you ten minutes of eventual grovelling to get him to actually eat more, and you probably deserve that, too. He agrees they’re nice, though, and even chuckles and compliments your design choice once his glare has faded, which is enough for you to label them a big success.

Dirk also looks less worried, which lets you relax a lot more. You fucked up, you ran away from admitting that, but you’ve never been one for mature conversations and thinking about what leaves your mouth. Peace offerings of cake are the best you can do.

"It’s getting late." He remarks, after a while of pointless chatter and snark. You’d lost track of time, and feel let down as you gather up the remains of the night, watching him stand and brush crumbs from his shirt.

"Want me to walk you home?" Dirk raises an eyebrow at you as you ask it, putting on a show of thinking hard about it before shaking his head.

"I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say I can manage on my own."

Regardless, you follow him out of the door to the top of the stairs when he fails to say anything else, catching his arm and telling him, with a rather red face, that you enjoyed the night and would be totally okay with maybe doing something like this again, sometime.

Sometime being, y’know, a time like next Friday?

That would be a really good sometime.

Dirk smirks, and nods, but he can’t hide the little spark of relief in his voice when he says that’d be cool.

He rocks up onto the balls of his feet to kiss your cheek goodnight, and the stupid smile on your face doesn’t disappear as you watch him downstairs. You head back inside with a happy song on your lips, pleased it wasn’t a total disaster, pleased there’s a round two, pleased with everything and everyone and feeling like little birds will swoop in from your window any moment to whistle along like you’ve walked straight out of a cartoon.

The birds disappointingly miss their cue, but it does nothing to dampen your mood.

You wash up, dry your hands, and then grab what’s left of the cakes, deciding to save them for when Dave inevitably appears to check you didn’t kill each other or whatever else he expects you to have done. You’re sure there’s room in your typically sparse fridge, pulling it open-

-To that motherfucking _puppet_ falling out onto you and tangling you up in long limbs while huge blue eyes clack loudly against your glasses.

You scream.

Cursing, you manage to just keep hold of the cakes as you flail and stagger back and slam into the wall, freeing yourself and holding the thing at arm’s length as you stare at it in terror. Your terror quickly turns to realisation, which is promptly followed by a giggle you suppress and a _definitely_ annoyed expression.

No sooner has your breathing settled than your door is knocked, and you stalk over and pull it open to Dirk trying his very hardest not to laugh, clearing his throat at you and turning his attention to the puppet.

"Cal, I told you about running off, dude." He starts, and you swear to God, you’re going to kill him. "You’ll give someone a scare if you keep this up." His mouth is twitching upwards constantly, and he looks back to your face with an apologetic, "Sorry, bro, I just can’t keep the little guy under wraps-"

"Oh, don’t worry." You tell him, sweetly, nudging the door with your foot. Dirk leans in to grab his puppet as you offer it, and as soon as he does your other hand whips up, the plate of cakes smooshing with a very satisfying sound against his face.

He calmly takes the puppet as you calmly lower the plate, the cupcakes it doesn’t catch slowly sliding down his face and then falling to the floor. You watch him lift a hand and take his blue, gold and pale crumb covered glasses off, blinking down at them and then shooting you a wry smile. Ha! You’d like to see him get the Gambit back now!

Dirk holds your gaze, cocking his head in defiance.

He clips his shades to his shirt, and slowly runs his thumb down his cheek, pad pressed to the side of his nose, coating it in icing and cake. Without blinking, he slides his thumb to his lips, which part and surround it as his cheeks hollow, the digit disappearing in entirely before he slowly draws it out. His eyes haven’t left yours, and you make a sound like a dying mouse, his saliva and icing slicked thumb coming free with a terrible, wonderful wet sound that makes you flinch.

Your Gambit doesn't so much drop as _implode_.

"G’night, John." He drawls at you, giving you a wink before he vanishes, the air in front of you empty and his door clicking shut below. Once, twice, three times you blink at nothing, and then you shake your head and bring yourself to your senses, starting to grumble while you fetch a dustpan and brush.

You’d thought now that you were talking, this Prankster business between you might actually die down.

On your knees, sweeping up the confectionary remains and already planning how to get him back for his little display, you realise with growing excitement that you were completely and utterly wrong.

.:.

Dear owner of the plushest rump I didn't stitch with my own two hands,

I was worried about you, John. I figured you were lost to the swooning undeath of the elder crushes what with how you went from nightly entertainment so loud Australia put in a complaint straight to the sort of silence normally reserved for normal people who respect their neighbours. I knew you were fond of me for some inexplicable reason, but was that really enough your terrible affliction had been cured?

Hell no, of course not. You better call up your old man and tell him the tests are in and being an asshole is incurable. I was almost relieved when my tools started vibrating off my table from the sheer volume that boomed down from above like the deity of shitty movies himself had manifested in my rafters. Almost glad whatever personality switch you'd been suffering was at an end.

I say almost, John, because within ten seconds, I remembered your actual taste in films, and with all the urgency of a rocket powered cheetah, my inner critic was back from his healing retreat and begging for the silence, given the alternative was Epic Movie.

I'm going to be nice to you, John. I mean, I could go on about recycled dialogue done beat for beat in a poor imitation of the original for laughs that fail to appear so hard they create a black hole from which no amusement can actually escape, but I won't. I could go on about quality actors failing at their jobs so badly I'm pretty sure the audition process involved a segment on who could hit themselves hardest in the head with a sledgehammer, but I won't. I could go on about jokes so terrible I started banging my head on the table and even that was better than the punchlines, but I won't.

I won't say a word about that idiotic, inane, offensive piss stain of a film forever darkening the once immaculate carpet of my mind alongside all the other spilled shit you have lovingly applied to it in the time since I arrived in this unfortunate choice of apartment. Honestly, I suspect more and more with each passing day it was chosen purposefully by my dearest Bro as some kind of ironic punishment.

Speaking of which, that little joke backfired spectacularly on him if it was part of his ever mysterious plan. I was thinking Friday we could go out somewhere and I could wine and dine you to save my poor inner critic the chance he might suffer a film of your choosing. Fancy food is a small price to pay for my sanity, and if you are actually able to wear more than that one outfit with the kawaii as fuck bowtie we could even dress up and pretend to be mature adults for the night.

Let me know what you think, assuming that last film didn't destroy your higher brain functions altogether.

All my dokis and sloppy makeouts,

Yours, the ever suffering, crushing fool in apartment 313.

dear the only asshole cute enough to get away with it,

i’m glad you really loved the movie! i picked it out specially just for you, and i just knew we could enjoy it together. i hope you heard my friendly laughter through the ceiling, when i was laughing with you, not at you, because i certainly heard your screams of affectionate rage! i was so happy to hear your voice cursing my name, now that you know it! it made our whole little ‘thing’ so much more personal, don’t you think?

i’m super glad you’re paying so much attention to my interests too! i mean coming out of my door this morning to find it papered with centerfolds that you’d lovingly stuck nic cage’s face over for me was kinda a surprise, but those buxome, rugged beauties have all been collected into a special box for me to savour always. i was also fond of the miniature faces making sure all the ladies were child friendly, even though now whenever i look at a woman i can’t help but imagine a tiny pair of cameron poe’s keeping her covered. thanks for that, dirk! it’s nice to see you being as thoughtful as ever.

despite the fact that you have once more outdone yourself with childish wit and being a stupid dick, for some reason i’m totally cool with that for friday, and i can so wear something that isn’t my bowtie! i just don’t want to. so you can get used to it. we should go somewhere stupidly fancy and be serious adults doing serious things, except i’m totally going to prank everyone who gets close enough and we might have to sprint for the door at some point. that usually happens when dave and rose take me places! don’t tell me where, surprise me so i can reach the 'maximum dokis', as dave keeps warning me not to do that and we both know how desperate i am to do exactly what he says.

so yeah! let me know when to meet you and stuff, and knowing you i’ll probably only see you then, you invisible ass.

yours, the secret nic cage fetishist savouring all his new material in apartment 413.

p.s. these sloppy makeouts have been promised twice now and i have not been made out with *cleanly* once, let alone sloppily! false advertisement, dude. you should get on that post haste.

Dear the carrot dangling ever closer to my reach,

Alright, bro, I’m gonna admit, you’ve got me this time. I thought I’d puzzled out your shitty sense of humour, got your predictable cliché shit down flat, but nope. Just when I wrap my head around your obnoxious nonsense you take the rules of the game, fold them all up and cut them into paper snowflakes in Fall. See, until now, you’ve always worked by the book. And I do mean that literally, John, I googled some of your shit and there is literally a book containing it, which I would bet all my brother’s ironically gotten gains you own. The movies were all your inspired idea, sure, but you seemed to just work by the worst films you knew, and they were a genre spanning menagerie of inbreds, offensive mundanity, and outright vomit inducing shit.

So I don’t know if this is just you horsing around, me climbing the pranking ladder, or if this is how you flirt, but doing something genuinely based on my interests feels like the equivalent of a normal person giving me a big bunch of roses. You were an asshole in a touching, personal way, and even though I’m gonna throttle you at some point soon I’m going to do it affectionately. I’m all aflutter with cheerful rage, which seems to be my permanent state of being with you.

Now I appreciate you must have enjoyed my little Trojan Pony of a DVD enough to go out and get more but let me tell you there’s a tiny fucking difference between my incredibly thoughtful gift and the ancient misery you put me through last night. I don’t even know how you got hold of that many episodes without darkening your internet history because I can’t imagine you sitting there with a totally straight face googling the shit out of My Little Pony like your life depended on it. How many walls did you have to punch to feel manly again, John? Or are you ready to admit you harnessed the magic of friendship and have harboured a secret love of it since I let it in to brighten your once dreary life?

I think we both know the truth, but don’t worry, I won’t tell Dave until a comically appropriate moment, I promise.

As for the horseshit we shared last night, I recommend you take the discs or your hard drive and burn it all because that shit is going to fester if you don’t. Some things are better left forgotten and away from the eyes of grown men, and that is one of them. Donate it to a deserving little girl, or Dave. Burn it with acid, fire and sick put downs. Just do something with it, John, because I’m not setting foot in that apartment until it’s no longer home to such hazardous material. It might pollute my FiM and next thing I know everything will go old school and I might not be able to watch my not so guilty pleasure with widely accepted impunity. You’d be amazed what difference a few generations makes.

Trotting over to more pressing issues, because your ongoing state of being a total asshole of a neighbour is well know at this point, you should be dressed in your sexiest finery no later than seven Friday night so I can come sweep you off your feet and off to somewhere fancy as fuck we are probably going to get banned from one way or another. Let’s at least try to finish the meal before we reveal our true nature, that way we’ll have their trust and the devastation will be all the more complete. Not that I’m condoning any sort of pranking, of course, because as the only mature adult present it behooves me to tell you that pulling that shit would be very childish and ridiculous of you, and if you can’t rein it in I’ll have to give you an incredibly stern light slap on the wrist and pull an annoyed expression for precisely one minute. One whole minute, John, you have been warned.

If you need me I’ll be cleansing my palate with the only horse-based children’s show it’s inexplicably socially acceptable for me to watch.

Yours, the dashing stallion in apartment 313.

P.S., you had your chance to get your mack on, and you passed on it so don’t complain at me. Maybe Friday you’ll remember I actually have a pair of lips, and you also have a pair of lips, and I am totally down with us putting them together as messily as your heart desires.

dear the vengeful spirit of wally west,

you know if i actually saw you, like, *ever*, maybe i wouldn’t have to resort to romantically planning pranks just for you so i can flirt. most people say ‘hi, you look nice’, or smile at each other in the corridor, but nope! you’re too busy being invisible for me to do anything other than loudly curse your name when you slam a door behind me without warning! which, by the way, you do so often i don’t even jump anymore. thanks to you constantly auditioning for the role of world's most irritating poltergeist, i'm at the point where if i don't hear a door slam at least once every night it's like going out in the summer and not hearing any birds. it just doesn't feel right anymore.

you know what would feel right, though? not living in fear of opening cupboards or rifling through things in my own apartment. just getting breakfast or looking for my trick supplies has become this weird dance of opening places just a crack and trying to get my stuff out of there like indiana jones before the seriously questionable boulder of foam ass comes rolling out to crush me. i don’t even know what these ridiculous toys are meant to be but the one time i showed dave one he told me i really, really don’t want to find out, so i guess you’re continuing with the whole ‘sexual gifts that make john look stupid in front of his friends’ thing! it’s a dumb thing, and you should stop doing it. i also hope you know you’re never getting any of these plush little fuckers back, i’m going to keep them all and have bonfire with them as the guests of honour who unfortunately happen to combust.

i’ll give you points for style, i guess! when i opened my door to all that silly string across it i thought you’d messed up, because there’s no way i’d fall for something that stupid, and i didn’t! i cleaned it up and didn’t get a single bit on me. except you’re a tricky little dick, and i just know you did your dumb moving quickly thing while i was busy, because ever since then everywhere i look around my apartment are these stupid colourful toys with stupid googly eyes and long noses and i just know you put them there!! it isn’t funny, they’re just creepy, and now they’re everywhere!!!

when i was getting out the paper to write this there was one hiding under my desk, staring at me with its tiny soulless pupils as i jumped. watch out for the headlines, dirk, ‘cool dude killed from a creepy toy caused heart attack, dumb neighbour to blame for being a great big fucking jerk’! it’s only a matter of time.

i’m pretty sure i’m insane for still looking forward to tomorrow, which i totally am, by the way. if we don’t get thrown out of at least one place i’m going to be disappointed in us, so bring your a game! what fun is dinner without some entertainment, right?

i’ll see you tomorrow, dirk, and i’ll make sure to wear only my prettiest dress.

yours, the one and only original prankster in apartment 413.

.:.

You’re waiting at the door at exactly seven, and Dirk knocks practically to the second. Whatever stupid jump towards the handle your hand does you quickly put a stop to, because you’re going to be cool about this, you’re going to be so casual. It’s not like you’ve been dressed in a fancy black and blue pinstripe three piece for hours, fiddling with your hair and bowtie until they aren’t _quite_ as messy as normal. It’s not like you’ve been pacing and thinking of all the places he might take you, and ringing Dave to double and triple check the sort of things Dirk likes.

Because all of that would be stupid, and you’re clearly _much_ more mature than that!

You open the door at a relaxed pace, calm and collected, already with a little smile and no blush whatsoever on your cheeks, you’re sure. Unfortunately, it doesn’t last long, because it seems that one more thing Dirk shares with Dave is how stupidly well he wears a suit.

You’ve dressed up for dinner, but he looks like he dressed up for a Hollywood premiere, and given that he’s a Strider that might be more accurate than you want it to be. He’s all defined lines and glossy, pressed smoothness, every layer lined up precisely and every cuff and collar folded and fixed just _so_. It makes you feel a mess, even though you’re the most respectable looking you’ve been in a long, long time.

Normally all of that would be enough for you to dwell on all night, but it vanishes from your mind when you take in his face. His hair is, for once, combed rather than styled back, and is longer than you thought it was where it sits and frames his face. His face itself looks frankly alien without the shades you pretty much think of as part of him. It seems too… _small_ without them, though you won’t complain about seeing his vast array of freckles in all their glory, or finally seeing his eyes totally unobscured.

Most people would probably spend more time staring at them, romanticising them, fawning over their hue. You just blink and look back to his face as a whole. After all, you already knew their colour before you’d even seen him, thanks to his most romantic offering; it makes sense that when he took the time to use your eye colour, he took the time to match his own.

Another thought takes precedence over any cheesy comparisons to sparkling gems.

Dirk Strider is _frustratingly_ attractive, in the way that usually makes you want to punch people for their genes. You’re rather annoyed at him for being so pretty. Annoyed and maybe just the _tiniest_ bit deliriously happy he’ll be hanging off _your_ arm tonight.

"The bowtie goes." He announces, and that’s his entire greeting.

"The bowtie stays." You tell him pleasantly, stepping out and shutting the door behind you, and with that you’re on your way.

A date. _A date._ A fancy date with a meal and suits and a tiny little fashionable dork. This isn’t the sort of thing that happens to you. Once again, you aren’t actually all that sure what to do. You don’t really talk on the way downstairs, until you get there and argue for ten minutes about who’s going to drive who, who the lady is in this situation, how that’s dumb and you’re both men and screw this you’re going to drive because you said so, until Dirk points out you have no idea where you’re going and you pause with your hand on the handle and mutter your way back across the carpark to sit in his dumb fancy black convertible. He pats your knee with a _there, there _and a smirk, and you tell him to just drive before you change your mind and go home.__

The car is started, a CD of Songs From the Musicals starts to play, and you want to be surprised but you’re really, really not. You give him a look, and he gives you one back, raising a challenging eyebrow.

"What?"

"Don’t you have any good music?" Oh God, it’s _America_ , you fucking love this song. Bad foot, stop tapping, he might be on to you. "Musicals are lame."

"Oh, like you don’t know every fucking word to these." He answers, with a smug little waggle of his brows.

You deny all knowledge, and return to irritated silence, which is totally how you’re going to stay whether he likes it or not! He’s a patronising asshole, and _nothing_ is going to cheer you up.

Nope!

Of course by the time you’re out on the open road you’re both singing _Turn It Off_ loud enough people give you looks as you pass, throwing your hands above your head and listening to Dirk dissolve into laughter when you treat him to your best attempt at an operatic voice.

He finds his own voice again to tell you he could’ve danced all night, and you giggle at him, and feel very young, and happy, and free. There’s wind in your hair and a song in your heart, and in that moment he’s the prettiest damn man you think you’ve ever seen.

You remember much later that you were annoyed at him.

You can’t for the life of you remember why.

.:.

You just _know_ Dave got you a reservation at the place Dirk finally pulls up at, because it’s just the right level of ridiculously fancy that Dave would eat there, out of some weird sense of irony, and the fact you’re pretty sure the imposing security guy you pass at the door would snap any paparazzi in two. Sometimes you actually _remember_ Dave has an issue with paparazzi, and then stop and wonder how on earth your dorky best friend ended up this famous star that you eternally struggle to see him as.

He’ll always just be… well, Dave! You’re pretty sure nothing will change that.

He convinced you to go to a premiere once, to try and show you you were wrong. All it did was give you an opportunity to watch him work a crowd, to pull off this kind of practised grace you were pretty sure only he and Rose were capable of, to listen to his repeated assurances that this was what he lived for, and then to watch all the colour drain out of his already pale face as soon as you were safely behind closed doors. He gave you the most nervous laugh you’d ever heard him give, made this little noise about not understanding what all those people actually saw in him, and you just gave him a look back that said you understood.

You’ve been friends with Dave long enough to know even becoming a superstar has done nothing to give him any _real_ confidence in himself that isn’t just a practised act. Which is kinda dumb, because for all he’s a dork, he’s a _great_ dork, even if he’s super easy to wind up.

Dirk is still more of a mystery to you than you like admitting, even if he does seem to just fall into place in your life, to be a gear whose teeth click perfectly into yours. It’s not to say he’s lacking imperfections, you know better than that, and you’ve already seen how bizarre he is with human interaction. It’s more that maybe his imperfections slot in like puzzle pieces against your own, and his weirdness makes yours feel a little less out of place. It’s the same feeling you get with Jade, and Rose, and Dave. He’s one of you, but this time he feels like more than that, too.

You’re going to get to the bottom of him, one piece at a time. In your most romantic moments this last week, you’ve found you like to tell yourself you’re the only one who _can_.

(In one of your more _stupid_ moments, you told Dave that during one of many little phone calls. He laughed at you so hard he gave himself the hiccups.)

It genuinely catches you off guard when he says you have a reservation under the name Lalonde.

"Wait, _Rose_ got us in here? Why didn’t Dave-"

"John," Dirk begins sweetly, like explaining the obvious to a child, resting a hand patronisingly against your arm. "Have you ever actually seen Dave eat anything that wasn’t takeout, or Applebee’s?"

"Uh…" There was that one time in New York, but you are _not_ bringing that up right now. "No."

"Exactly. Dave wouldn’t eat in a place like this, not even ironically. It gives him some weird oh-shit-I’m-famous heebie jeebies." It sounds obvious, in retrospect, though it’s a tragic loss to see your imagined scenes of Dave trying and failing to fit in at a fancy restaurant be crushed by cruel truth. He’s probably been _dragged_ to similar places, though. You cling to that comfort. Awkward Dave awkwardly eating food too fancy for his mind to comprehend still _totally_ could have happened! "Rose eats here because she likes people leaving her to her own business, and also _observing the long buried psychoses of those who think themselves the upper classes._ She writes pages of notes, bro. One time she came in to see me and Dave and she had this whole essay about this one chick with daddy issues and a week later same chick went off the deep end live on national primetime. Rose knows things, John. She _sees_ things."

In the middle of his little speech, a waiter gestures you to follow, so without a hitch in his words you do. Dirk’s arm fits naturally around yours as you are led to a small table, already laid with menus, _way_ too much cutlery, and some pretentious glittery twisting sticks in a vase, because apparently flowers just aren’t fancy enough anymore. You can’t help but glare, and the moment the waiter leaves to get you drinks, you grab the vase and move it to one side, so you can actually look at Dirk without getting that catastrophe of a sparklesplosion in your face instead.

"What happened to a nice single rose?" What _did_ happen to it? This table doesn’t look anything like the candlelit, rose-adorned beauties from the movies Karkat has insisted on making you sit through on more than one occasion.

"Allergies, probably. Too afraid of getting sued to do it for the sake of _romance_. I mean isn’t like _plastic_ flowers exist, don’t be ridiculous, what sort of mad world would we live in if that you could buy a cheap fucking replacement for a flower that never died?" Dirk’s gaze is off over the other patrons, hopping from person to person with varying degrees of interest, until it snaps back to you. Rose sees things, sure, but you’re starting to suspect Dirk does, too. He never quite stops looking like he’s judging people. "Dave took me out once while he was feeling particularly into acting up the fact he’s a famous asshole. We paid $55 for a salad, and yet we didn’t get a single candle or flower or anything beyond some weird sparkly shit on the table that just got stuck on all our clothes and made us look like we’d spent the night at some illicit nightclub. You’d think when they’re charging me that much for some fucking leaves that they could afford to spice the place up, but no, apparently these leaves are the leafiest leaves to ever leaf and paying a cent less would be a crime worthy of eternal damnation, which is funny, ‘cause they tasted just the same as every other fucking leaf I’ve ever had forced down my throat."

"$55 dollars for a salad? They saw you coming a mile away."

"What can I say? Dave is an idiot with too much money, he can do what he likes with it." Well, that’s certainly a conclusion you came to a long time ago, the fifth time Dave showed up at your apartment and told you he just bought some bizarre shop or building for the hell of it. One time he arrived and complained that his favourite coffee place was going out of business; the next week, he _owned_ it.

They bring you both water, because that is for some reason what Dirk thought you’d _clearly_ want to drink, and from the way it’s ceremoniously presented you would think the very tears of God had been collected in the rather plain tall glasses set down on the table. It has that slight flavour of overpriced mineral water, or a slight lack of tap water flavour, or however mysterious way you can tell the difference between what you’ve often been told is a totally tasteless fluid. The thought has bothered you before, and it captures your attention when you should be focused on Dirk - not that you’ve _ever_ dealt well with staying focused on dates, or anything similar. It’s like the moment your mind actually needs to stay trained on someone, it decides to misbehave and fixate on the dumb details in the tablecloth, the people around you, the weather, the music, the stupid film you watched three weeks before- anything that isn’t the person right in front of you.

Dirk doesn’t fail to notice.

"So…" He swirls his water at you, then sets it down with a thud that catches your attention where his words failed to. You blink at his expression, flashing a nervous smile he kills with a deadpan. "Something up there, bro?"

"Uh, no! No. Really, no." You repeat it, more sincere each time, catching a little hint of nervousness in his otherwise calm eyes. Shit, no, don’t fuck this up! Words catch and stutter out in your throat. "I just- I-"

Dirk watches you fall over yourself with the same look in his eyes you’d get watching a crash in slow motion.

"John." He hazards, sounding less certain than you thought was his permanent setting. "When, _exactly_ , did you last go out on a date?"

You bristle. "The other day, with you, in-"

" _Go out_." He repeats. The rush of indignance that had nearly formed in you buckles and fades away instantly, and the blush on your cheeks and weak laugh that bubbles out of you is enough of a reply. "Oh. Hm."

Despite what you’re expecting, the awkward atmosphere takes a sharp turn when he starts to laugh, pressing a hand over his mouth. Little _asshole_! With a frown that definitely _isn’t_ pouting, you kick him under the table.

"I’m sorry." He doesn’t sound very sorry! "I just- Dude, I was freaking out thinking you were hot property even though Dave described you more like the unwanted backyard of a dilapidated old condo." Wow, Dave. Wow. "Like I figured you’d had a ton of dates, look at you, who wouldn’t wanna get a piece of that? I thought you’d be comparing me to a ton of people. Whereas… you’re not, are you? I’m probably comparing you to more dudes than you’ve got to judge me by."

Your face is about to catch fire, and you kick him again, folding your arms with a huff. "I’ve totally had enough dates, thank you! Just not recently, that’s all."

"And how recently is not recently?"

Oh.

_Well._

It’s been ten years since you last actually had a boyfriend, not counting that month-long _wait I like a girl_ thing with Vriska that ended with you awkwardly ducking your way under thrown dice and plates and promising to call her when she was less of a bitch. You did call her back, in the end, but you both agreed like adults that the sex had been passable and the rest of the relationship had been a pretty big mistake. You got on with not dating anyone, and she got on with a long winding series of forgettable boyfriends and girlfriends until Rose exasperatedly spent a year finding her someone to _stay with_ , so she would just back off Kanaya and give them both _peace_. You want to say you feel sorry for that dude, but you really don’t. The few times you’ve met him he seemed like a total douchebag anyway.

That was that, though! And that was the only break in your ten-year drought, because the thing with Dave in New York didn’t happen and no one is going to make you admit it did; you two basically signed a best bro pact in blood promising to never admit you tried the dating thing and that it was the most awkward thing you’ve ever done. He liked you and you liked him but you work much better as friends than as anything romantic or even just sexual, and though the feelings are long faded and something you two laugh about over shared drinks now, you doubt announcing to Dirk that you may have in fact already seen evidence of the Strider family’s sexual prowess will go down well.

You might be shit at the dating thing, but even you know ‘so about the time I banged your brother’ is the worst conversation opener since ‘did I tell you I’m a mass murderer?’

"Ten years." There’s nothing else to say. You watch Dirk’s eyebrows do the disbelieving soar, followed by the amused twitch, followed by the concerned furrow. He’s like an even more pocket-sized Dave sometimes, and holy _shit_ do you know that little sequence of expressions so well. "Is that a problem?"

"Nope," his voice tells you, but his face screams _Jesus Dicks you need to get laid._ "Just… Wow, man. I was back in third grade the last time you got some."

Wow. Just… _wow_. His age hadn’t quite hit you in the gut with quite enough force yet, but there it is, there’s the knock-out blow, the referee is hitting the mat by your spinning head and the round is given to the lightweight challenger with the stupid hair.

"Well when did _you_ last-?" You start, intent on distracting yourself from the moment of clarity that’s threatening to send you running screaming from the table.

"Eh. A year ago." Dirk cuts you off, running the pad of his finger around the rim of his glass with a soft resonating chime. "Me and Jake were a thing. Pizza guy." He reminds you, when you scrunch your face up at the familiar name. "I dated the pizza guy. Shit happened, we didn’t work out, we weren’t ever going to. Me and him are chill now. Chill enough he’s got my back when I need an assist."

"An assist like putting a dick on a pizza?"

"An assist like putting a quality, thoughtful gift on some gourmet food, yes."

You can’t help but chuckle to yourself, muffling it behind a hand as the mention of food seems to remind Dirk you haven’t even ordered yet, his head rising and his eyes sweeping the place until a waitress appears not long after. As she heads over to you, you realise you haven’t even thought to look at the menu yet, fumbling for one and darting your gaze over the stupid names until you find one you are pretty sure is just steak.

Dirk orders something without looking, and you just awkwardly point yours out, smiling nervously at her as she repeats the order back to you and wishing you weren’t so awful in places like this. As she lifts the menus to take away with her, you weakly clear your throat to catch her attention, but before you can speak Dirk has beaten you to it, an air of authority in his words.

"He has a severe peanut allergy." He informs her, as you look at him in confusion. She’s nodding, assuring him that won’t be an issue and she’ll make a note of it, but you’re more focused on his face as you squint suspiciously at his serene expression.

As soon as she’s gone, you lean towards him.

"How do you know-?"

"Dirkleton, if you let that boy come within a mile of a peanut I will whoop your ass all the way back to Houston." He drawls, mimicking Dave’s ‘stern adult’ voice with uncanny accuracy. "I swear on all that’s holy, bro, if your fancy wining and dining has him laid up in some hospital ward like the sleeping beauty to your ridiculous dumb-ass prince, you ain’t gonna be macking on him to wake him from him sweet slumber ‘cause I’ll have sliced off your fucking head, you get me?"

"When did Dave become my Mom?" Jeez, you know he’s your best bro, but _really?_ You pick up your glass, going to take a sip as you mutter, "Did he give you a safe sex talk, too? Tell you to have me home by eight?"

"Ten, and I have thirty condoms in my bag, John, pick a fucking flavour."

You choke.

" _Dirk_!" It’s whined into your hand as you cover your face, putting your drink down and then flipping Dirk off as he snorts and laughs at you over the table. "Oh my _God_ , even Dad wasn’t that bad! He’s ridiculous."

"Hey, _you_ aren’t related to him. Imagine what I have to put up with all the time." Nope, you’d really rather not, this is embarrassing enough already. Dirk sighs in amusement, nudging your leg with his foot beneath the table so you look up at him. "I’m looking forward to seeing if you get the ‘how to fuck my brother’ talk via a shitty comic or an even shittier rap."

"He _wouldn’t._ " Dirk just looks at you, and you groan. "No, yeah, of course he would, it’s Dave."

"Those words are the story of my life."

Though he says it with an overdramatic weariness, he’s smiling at you, and it’s this big honest smile that light up his face, cheeks glowing from laughing at you and eyes happy curves that catch the light in just the right way to look alight, and wonderfully alive. Your own grin slips as you look at him, briefly overcome by the battling butterflies trying to tear their way out of your chest, and the warm fuzzy static in the back of your head you’re starting to notice more and more when he looks at you.

You’re angry at him for looking so good, you’re disbelieving that he’s here with you on a _date_ date, not just a bro date, and more than anything you’re acutely aware in that instant that you are absolutely one hundred percent _fucked._

You really, _really_ like this douchebag, and the longer you spend with him the longer you _want_ to spend with him. He lured you in with equine dick and now here you are, sat at a table and blushing as you count his freckles to occupy your roaming mind, unable to think of anywhere else you’d rather be.

You have it so bad, and you still have no idea where it came from in the first place.

Dirk seems to have noticed your dumb expression. His smile falters and then he coughs, pushing thin fingers back into his immaculate hair. The motion itself jars you, and returns you to your senses with a nervous giggle as your stomach flutters, and you pull off your glasses, cleaning them with your jacket just so you have something to do with your hands.

Words don’t seem wanted, for a while after that. There’s something in the silence, something new and calming, some understanding that you’re both okay with just being quiet together. Your hands strum at the table’s edge while you wonder how much longer the food will actually be, and after staring at them for several bars of the beat you’re tapping out against the wood, Dirk leans forward and ever so casually puts his hand on yours. You feel a weird tingle where he touches you. His hot palm against your skin feels more pronounced than it should, like all your nerves have decided to screech at you until you pay attention to the fact hand holding may totally be imminent.

This is a totally acceptable moment on a date, and one you should be able to deal with gracefully. Instead your brain is suddenly screaming at you like you’re eight, because _his hand_ is touching _your hand_ , and you apparently don’t have the mental maturity to deal with this shocking revelation. A funny noise escapes you, a weird nasally burst of laughter, which is just awkward and lame and makes you look like an _idiot_.

You’d tell him you’re cooler than this, you swear, but you’d be lying.

Sensing your quite apparent unease, Dirk pulls his hand away, and _that’s_ when you finally decide to catch up and realise the hand touching thing was a good thing, and you want it to be a thing again. All those things inspire you to _do_ a thing, and your hand shoots after his, fingers touching his to still them somewhere between the two of you.

The pads of your digits run over his knuckles, lightly, and then he raises his hand enough your fingers can slip between his, interlocking, your hand much bigger and darker than his narrow, pale appendage. You like the contrast, you decide, as you watch his pale skin settle atop yours. You like the feel of him there, that little contact, and your thumb gently rubs against him as you both relax and give each other little smiles.

The mountain has been climbed. This is by far the best date you’ve had. You haven’t even punched anyone in the face by accident yet, which makes a nice change!

Hm. That can go on your list of other things Dirk probably doesn’t need to know.

When the food finally, actually arrives, with assurances it will in no way kill you, you’re disappointed when you have to let go of him, and the conversation stays as small talk about the meals themselves.

Disappointed, but not _uncomfortable._ Somehow even through the dull chatter, his company alone still makes you smile.

.:.

For the fifth time in your life, you get kicked out of a reputable dining establishment.

The times before, once with your Dad, once with your cousin Jane, and twice with Dave, were well and truly not your fault. Dad being a prankster at the worst moments and laughing really loudly in the car all the way home wasn't you, Jane ordering _everything on the menu_ wasn't you, and Dave arguing with a waiter in the form of rap - twice! - _definitely_ wasn't you.

Sneaking out just before a prank goes off is a whole different thing, of course.

This time, though? This time was a _masterpiece_. Between Dirk's movement speed and the mind of an original prankster, you didn't just prank one waiter, or a few staff, you pranked everyone. It started a while after you'd both switched to wine, with you waiting forever for some weird fruit-based dessert and deciding to swap the sugar and salt between their containers as a little shock for whoever had the table next. Dirk watched you, and in a low voice, suggested something _brilliant_.

He took the swapped condiments, an flashed to the next table over, exchanging them with the set sitting on it and returning with the new ones. You mixed them around, and he did it with the next table, progressing around the room and through several more drinks until you were both giggling into your hands at the people he'd been fast enough to swap the containers over _right in front of,_ who were now discovering the mix up and enjoying salt in their drinks and sugar all over their steaks. It was a great prank, but the drink made it _hilarious_.

Unfortunately, that was your downfall. You couldn't stop your badly contained laughter, and that made the nearby staff suspicious, until Dirk drunkenly stumbling on the way back to your table gave the game away altogether.

You were made to pay and then escorted out, guffawing between complaints you never got dessert.

Now you're sat on the sidewalk, waiting for the cab you called to show up, more than a little over the limit to drive yourselves. Dirk is propped against your side and you're humming a tune into the night, a piano song you've played since you were small and your Dad first perched you beside him to teach you it.

Dirk laughs at nothing, and when you look down at him he smiles up at you, cheeks rosy from the drink and the evening chill. Your arm creeps around his shoulders and stays there, hugging him closer to you as he hums contentedly and melts into the cuddling touch.

When the car turns up, you have to help him into it, and after fumbling your seatbelts on you never quite stop holding hands. Something bothers you as you stare at him, fingers stroking and fidgeting over his skin.

Hang on.

"You told me you're only eight-"

"Shhhh." He leans over to you and presses his other hand over your mouth, looking at you with a drunken attempt at total seriousness. "Shh. Only quiet now. Didn't ask for ID, a bit a wine won't hurt me, right?"

He lowers his hand, and you think hard about your answer, which is enough time for him to decide that instead of hearing it he'd rather just be kissing you instead.

You don't quite realise what he's doing when his fingers curl behind your bow tie, thoughts light and hard to focus on as he pulls you forward and tilts his face up to yours, lips meeting awkwardly somewhere in the middle. You'd asked for sloppy makeouts, but this is ridiculous, and you snort at it, feeling his forehead bump yours as his mouth pulls back and he wheezes out a little laugh of his own.

"Holy shit." He snickers, and you shut your eyes, resting your head against him and trying to ignore the twist in your gut as the car make a turn. You focus on Dirk instead, on how hot his skin is where it touches yours, how you can hear his breath hitch now and then in silent hiccups that shudder through him, how his fingers have slipped from pulling you into petting aimlessly at your chest instead.

He's more intoxicating that any of the wine you've drunk, tonight. You can feel him against you and smell his aftershave, hear each breath he takes in the muffled enclosure of the car. Your eyes open a crack and he's looking straight back at you, heavy-lidded amber dimmed to a duller brown in the dark.

"Hey." He hums, touching his hand to your cheek and squeezing your fingers down on the leather between you.

"Hey." Everything feels warm, your head pulsing in a dizzying way that's hardly unpleasant. You think you want to kiss him again, but you don't trust yourself to try. "You should come back to mine." It sounds like a great idea, right now. "For, uh... For coffee."

"For _coffee_." Dirk drags out the word, adding this ridiculous wink that scrunches up half his face. " _Sure._ "

The ride was much shorter earlier, you swear it was, but in the end, you don't mind a little longer just sitting there with him, even if you're fighting with your stomach the whole time. The fare is somehow correctly paid between you, and then you're out in the cold at the foot of way too many stairs, groaning together at the prospect.

Everest is defeated with a few near misses, and the more difficult challenge of discovering which of your many seemingly suddenly identical keys opens your door is overcome with a lot of cursing and laughter and trial and error.

Then you're home, and don't even bother with the light before winding your way to your bedroom to get your stiff fancy shoes off and to hang your jacket up, because you might be drunk, but damn it you still know to treat a suit with the respect it deserves.

...Shit. You're turning into your Dad.

"John?" Dirk has followed you, instead of sitting on the couch like you completely forgot to tell him to. He leans on the door frame, his own jacket hanging from a few fingers over his shoulder, and he effortlessly makes it look obnoxiously attractive. He doesn't so much undress you with his eyes as take your body out on a moonlit stroll, seduce it lovingly, and then peel away each layer one by one with care. The gentlemanly way he regards you is ruined pretty quickly by the way he whistles as his gaze returns to your face, brows quirking up.

"Damn, Mister Egbert, you're fuckin' _fine_."

"Oh man, don't call me that, it makes me sound like my Dad." You wave a dismissive hand at him, but Dirk's eyebrow does a little twitch at your words, his lashes fluttering.

"Well I could just call you Daddy." He offers, voice low, and you're lost somewhere between laughing, slapping him, and fucking him through the floor.

" _Dirk_!" You manage exasperatedly, and he shrugs, standing unsteadily and then moving over to you, practically falling against your chest. His fingers claw into your shirt as he drops his jacket to the floor, and although you were more amused than anything a moment ago, with him this close and looking up at you like that, your heart can't help but start to drum a quicker tune.

This time when he pulls you down, it's still messy and uncoordinated, but if anything that just adds to the rush of heat in you that drops straight to the pit of your stomach, your hands gripping at his hair and waist as his dart up to coil around your neck. You're craning down to him, but you don't care, any discomfort taking a backseat to the hot, wet press of his lips over and over against yours, his hips pulling in and pressing flush against you in a way that shouldn't feel quite as good as it does.

You were wrong before, you aren't lost at all. You want to fuck this smug asshole through the floor, no question about it.

Dirk seems to whole heartedly concur with your completely rational decision, and you're not quite sure when standing up kissing becomes sitting half slumped on the bed fumbling with each other's shirts, but here you are, giggling and mumbling in amused frustration between kisses as the simple task of undressing completely eludes you both. You end up breaking apart, carefully freeing yourself from your own top as he undoes his, perched on your knees and quite content there. The kissing resumes with a hell of a lot more touching, tracing and admiring. Your gaze keeps slipping down to him, fingers moving over his freckles and muscles and smooth arms like you're trying to map them in your mind.

His hands seem obsessed with your body hair, lingering on your arms, and front, sliding up and down the trail from your navel to your slacks before returning to your forearms yet again. You pause and give him a look as he paws at your chest, and he responds entirely maturely by reaching up and twisting the ends of your moustache so they curl up, and giggling about it.

"There's this invention called a razor, bro, you should check it out some time." You swat his hands away, and he continues talking as they ghost down your sides, a pleasant shiver darting down your spine after them. "It's totally cutting edge."

"No puns while we fuck, that is- That's a rule, dude." You flick his chest, and he snickers, lightly slapping one of your hips in retaliation. "You don't pun while you ride the pole or you get kicked the fuck off it."

" _Ride the pole._ Jesus." He shakes with a stifled giggle, and then his arms are draped over your shoulders, his lips up against yours and his tongue coaxing you to deepen the kiss again. "Nn, John-"

It's easy to melt back into it, to drunkenly take everything he's offering you, and your explorative touches become more intent on making him tremble and shudder against you, his hips bucking as your hand finally strays towards his belt. You can taste the wine on his breath as he gasps out, and somewhere in all the arousal that's spiked up in your chest you notice he's started to ramble in the dwindling time your mouths aren't together, that when he's coming undone he sounds a lot like his-

Oh.

_Shit._

Clarity whacks you with a sobering punch to the face, and you blink, putting your hands on his shoulders are pushing him back. Dirk whines, lips flushed and pupils blown up as he grasps your wrists and does his best to get closer again, pausing when you catch your breath and speak.

"Dirk, no, fuck. We can't do this. You're drunk, I'm drunk, we barely know each other and Dave will literally cut off my dick if this is a mistake we end up regretting. My dick doesnt want that." Actually, right now your aching shaft is actually bitching at you for cockblocking your own cock, but the grownup words keep spilling from your mouth with a mixture of certainty and regret. "Look- I like you, but I don't want this to get fucked up like this, not because of some wine you shouldn't have even had and because you're a stupid sexy asshole. Plus, I mean, not gonna lie, man." You pull an apologetic expression. "I am pretty attached to my dick."

" _I_ could be pretty attached to your dick if you-"

" _Dirk_."

It takes a few moments for his breathing to start to even out, but when it does he drops his hands, groaning.

"Yeah, yeah, shit." He mumbles, punching you lightly in the shoulder. "You're right and you suck. Ugh. What happened to movie sex, John? What happened to passionately banging my brains out because I bought you a fancy dinner?"

"Don't Karkat me, Dirk." You nudge him back, letting go, and now the rush is gone you're starting to notice the ache in your head, and the way your stomach hasn't settled at _all_. Wow, you feel like death. "I've met you like, three times, and two of those times involved mentions of Bat-nipples, which means they basically don't count. I like you too much to do the drunk sex followed by never making eye contact again thing."

"That's a thing?"

"Oh precious child, that's a thing. Dude, one time in New York me and Dave couldn't look at each other for a week because we got so drunk he thought us dressing like Rose and Jade to fuck was a good-"

The sentence stops, because something bad is in it, and you rewind as you watch his eyebrows rise, though overall he still looks plain old tired. Oh. You've found the thing. It's a pretty awful thing.

"Uh." Is all you can say, because you don't know how to get out of this, you literally don't, Dirk is staring at you, and you just admitted to fucking his brother, and things will be awkward, and _this is why you don't drink_ , and you're panicking and feeling ever worse and- and-

"Dave said you're pretty good in bed."

Your open mouth snaps shut, and you look at him as he chuckles, stroking your cheek gently. "He told me about the belt thing too, you kinky motherfucker."

Well so much for the whole promise signed in blood thing!

"He told you about New York?" You whine it out pitifully, and Dirk pats your shoulder, before yawning a reply.

"Told me you'd been a thing. And weren't a thing. And the thing was so not a thing it was an anti-thing, now. Way more metaphors and advice on banging you, though." Dirk shuffles forward, curling up against you, ignoring your frustrated expression. "Said no point me not knowing 'cause I'd be mad if I thought he was hiding it if I found out later."

You cuddle him, grumbling into his hair. Way to tell _you_ that Dirk knew, Dave! Way to be a good brother and give Dirk a sex talk of _completely the wrong kind._ You're pretty annoyed, but Dirk starts laughing into your chest, and you question him with a sound, watching as he tilts his face up towards you.

"You had drunk sex with Dave." Dirk tells you, like you had no idea about your own sexual history. "But you like me too much to fuck me right now _just in case_. That's actually hella cute."

"It is?"

"Sure it is, you being the proper gentleman and all that fancy shit. Maybe this is like a movie after all." Dirk yawns again, giving you a poke. "Can I at least sleep here tonight if I promise not to ride the pole until I'm sober enough to operate such heavy machinery?"

Somewhere between laughing like that's the funniest joke you've ever heard, you pepper his hair with light kisses and curl up in bed with him, pulling the cover up over your heads so you have a tent to hide in and just admire his face in the dark.

"I'm probably gonna regret all this maturity tomorrow." You muse sleepily, as he finally starts drifting out of focus, even through the glasses you left on like the trashed idiot you are. "Think you will?"

Dirk is already practically asleep, but he gives a distant snort, mumbling into the pillow.

"Expect several letters of complaint."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, maturity. A blessing, and a curse.


	4. The Day After The Night Before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 413 mini-chapter! John and Dirk are enjoying the awkward fun of the morning after, but someone else is going to interrupt their little honeymoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOOOOO HAPPY 413! COOL SHIT HAPPENED, HOMESTUCKS REJOICED, HERE'S AN UPDATE I BANGED OUT FOR THE OCCASION ENJOY IT!

Waking up the next day is surprisingly easy, but actually opening your eyes isn’t. You feel awful, the throbbing heaviness in your head making it easy to just leave it against the pillow, to just assure yourself you need five more minutes and then instantly drop back into sleep for another half an hour. Somehow, you resist it, and after a few minutes of raspy groaning, you push yourself up, your stomach lurching as your head spins.

Oh _Christ_ this is why you don’t drink.

You’ve never taken alcohol well. You asked your Dad once and got _‘blah blah Asian ancestry’_ back, and apparently that means drink hits you harder than you’re pretty sure it should. Dave has never ceased to tell you that you get drunk like a featherweight, and revels in the fact that at half your size he can - and has been known to - drink you under the table.

You have no idea what possessed you to think drinking was a good idea last night.

Hm. You’re also starting to think your bed is a little emptier than it should be.

With a mutter that comes out hoarse thanks to your desert of a throat, you run your hand over the bed beside you, unsure if it’s warm from being recently occupied or if it’s just your imagination. Not knowing which one you hope is the case and trying not to think too hard about last night at all, you fumble for your glasses, and find them sitting on your bedside table with a glass of water, several aspirin, and a note.

You fell asleep with these shits on but I’m guessing you don’t want them broken. I’m going to take advantage of your shower and you can begrudge me that all you like because I have a sword and a desire for actual cleanliness and if you get in the way of either of them the outcome will be the same.

You snort, turning it over out of force of habit (after growing up with your Dad, if there’s one thing you know, it’s notes) as you reach for the water with your other hand.

You’re hella cute when you’re asleep.

The sound that leaves you is one you hope never, ever escapes you in front of anyone else for the rest of your life.

You are a grown man of nearly forty, you are not meant to make noises that sound like they should be spilling from the mouth of an excited teenage girl. You’re not meant to blush firetruck red, you’re not meant to whine pitifully about a boy half your age, and you are _not_ meant to pull out your phone to text Jade in a completely calm and not at all ridiculous manner that Dirk thinks you’re cute.

But here you are. You have no idea what your life has become.

GG: oh my gosh john that is adorable!! :o   
GG: youre adorable.   
GG: look at you so happy to be dating pizza dick guy! :)   
EB: his name is dirk and you might be surprised to learn he has more going for him than his amazing choice of pizza toppings.   
EB: plus so far i haven’t had a single plate thrown at my head, so he’s definitely beating vriska there!!   
GG: thats what you got for dating the same girl who tricked you into betting your house on a game of poker!   
EB: hey, she won!   
GG: john drugging the other guys drink and hightailing it out of the casino before anyone realised isnt winning!!!!   
EB: no one ever proved those ridiculous allegations.   
GG: except you when you told me that was exactly what shed done!! >:(   
EB: yeah, well.   
EB: vriska is kind of insane.   
GG: i dont get how you can still be friends with her!   
EB: i’m not even sure i am anymore, i mean, she is kind of a bitch?   
EB: we haven’t spoken in a while other than when she wants something, too, not since the whole rose incident.   
EB: plus her boyfriend!! oh my god don’t get me started on that smug little asshole.   
EB: "oh john, have you seen my prosthetic legs that are worth more than your existence? let me rub how much they’re worth in your face again!"   
EB: how about i shove them up your ass you stupid dick!!   
GG: john i think youre losing the topic here... :/   
EB: ...what was the topic?   
GG: youre getting as bad as dave, idiot!   
GG: dirk, john. tell me about dirk!! :D

So you do. You find clean pants and a shirt as you type everything you remember about last night, going from two hands to one hand to awkwardly tapping while trying to hop into each leg and do up the zipper, but you spill out all the thoughts you’d had and all the things you’d done right up until you leave it, tastefully, at the two of you getting out of the cab and being home. Jade adds the odd smiley-laden comment, but mostly she just lets you ramble and get it all out, and you’re really grateful for that. You feel like you could talk about last night, about Dirk, all _day_ , but you know that’s not an option, too. At least you get this one big wall of text, sent to someone who actually seems interested. It’s enough to cling to, for now.

GG: im really happy for you, john!!   
GG: he sounds great, and only *almost* as much of a dork as dave.   
EB: i don’t know, i think they’re pretty well matched on the dork front.   
EB: dirk’s a little better at pretending he’s cool but then in the middle of a sentence he says ‘hellacious’ or something and you go "oh wait! you’re just as dumb as your brother."   
EB: it’s really adorable jade! holy shit, he tries to save it and look smooth but he knows you’re laughing inside and he starts to blush even though he’s kept that perfect stupid deadpan and oh my god.   
EB: oh. my. god.   
EB: i can’t handle how seriously he takes himself, it’s too much.   
EB: he has to know how lame he is, he must do, he can’t actually believe in all that irony stuff, right??   
EB: it’s so precious. i want to pat his dumb styled hair and tell him he’s cool to me, no matter what anyone else thinks.   
GG: omg you have it baaaaaaad, john!!! :o   
GG: listen to you this is so cute!   
GG: awww i forgot how adorable you get when you have a crush on someone, but you should know its a lot of adorable, john!   
GG: a lot!!! :D   
GG: i hope i get to meet him soon.   
GG: and by that i mean you better introduce us mister because i can make you petsit bec for another six months if you dont!!!! >:D   
EB: there’s no need for such drastic threats, jade.   
EB: the next time you’re in town i’ll introduce you, i promise!   
EB: assuming me and him are still a thing then.   
EB: if we’re a thing now, i mean.   
EB: are we a thing?   
EB: is two dates a thing?   
EB: jade, this is important, are two dates enough that we’re a thing???   
GG: oh my gosh john.   
GG: stop being so cute, im going to explode.   
GG: maybe you should ask karkat, he knows that sort of stuff!!   
EB: but...   
EB: but...   
GG: john dont say it   
EB: but he’s *karkat*, jade.   
GG: john, you always do this!! :(   
GG: theres nothing wrong with karkat, hes really nice under all the swearing and hatred, you know that!!   
EB: he’s your best friend!! you are so biased.   
GG: he is my best friend because hes a good guy!   
GG: now stop being a dumb dumb and message him, idiot!   
EB: i still can’t believe he called me that.   
EB: he knows every curseword ever in at least four languages and he suddenly throws down an insult that’s super harsh if you’re in second grade.   
GG: i thought it was really sweet!   
EB: i thought it was hilarious.   
EB: see, there’s another dork i can’t believe takes himself seriously.   
EB: you think he’s all fury and romance and cool maybe and then you mention will smith and you see into the eyes of a desperate man.   
GG: do you remember when dave introduced them though???   
GG: do you remember john?   
EB: karkat’s told me about it so often i can basically recite word for word what happened, so yes! yes i do.   
EB: he was unintelligible for like, a whole week.   
EB: it was the best thing.   
GG: hahaha!   
GG: oh man karkat is really great!! :)   
EB: maybe he is, but don’t tell him i said that.   
GG: i wont, not this time anyway! ;)   
GG: but i do have to go   
GG: my cameraman is getting all annoyed at me again :/ i dont think i like him much!!   
GG: i want someone whos here for the fun and the science not someone whos only here for a paycheck!   
GG: ugh. :(   
GG: next time im on the mainland i am going to find someone new, i have to!! i cant put up with this for another year.   
EB: well, good luck jade!   
EB: if he annoys you that much why not just get bec to drop him in the ocean or something?   
GG: dont be silly, john! i cant control bec.   
GG: i can cross my fingers and hope really hard though! ;)   
EB: have a good time, if you can. i think dirk’s finally finished using three times as much water as i normally do in a month so i better go too.   
GG: have fun!!!   
GG: tell him i said hi :D

You hadn’t even really noticed the shower running until the sounds stopped, but now you can hear the quiet, stowing your phone in your pocket as you try to place the noises just audible in the new lull. That’s him opening the bathroom door, definitely, and advancing towards you, and _wow_ you are nervous all of a sudden and for some reason you weren’t expecting this.

The door opens, and Dirk stands in it in a towel that covers from his waist to his knees and another around his neck, the rest of him bare, still wet, hair slicked down and eyes on your face as soon as yours find his. There’s silence, and in it, only one thought occurs to you.

You _totally_ could’ve tapped that.

You’re an idiot.

After an uncomfortably long time, Dirk clears his throat, pulling the towel up from his shoulders and starting to scrub at his hair with it. You have no idea what to say to him, which feels really dumb. When you actually fuck someone, you have a whole conversation in your head the moment you wake up, you know exactly how to explain yourself and duck out, if needs be. Right now, though? You feel like something is needed, some acknowledgement of what happened, but-

"...Thanks."

-Dirk beats you to it.

He sighs, dropping his hands and leaving the towel like a hood over his head,eyes peeking out at you with the slight red evidence of his own mistakes last night. "Don’t get me wrong, bro, I woulda been down with pretending we were making good choices and going with it all the way, I really would. But… But it would’ve been fucking stupid." A flush spreads over his cheeks, consuming his freckles. "You were right. We still don’t know each other that well, we were drunk, we’re kinda dumb sometimes. I want this to be something more substantial or not a thing at all, and if we fuck I wanna do it when it’s actually right to, not when I’m trashed and horny and acting just as stupid as Dave taught me."

"Oh." Such eloquence. You marvel at your own incredible response, then scramble to think of a better one as he starts to look awkward. "I- Yeah. Yeah! I’m glad we didn’t do the dumb thing, because aside from Dave killing me, we probably would’ve felt less into it this morning. Um. And, uh." His words catch up to you, and you play through them again, feeling a lightness in your chest as your lips form a slightly dazed smile. "I’d like this to be more substantial too. I mean, I only actually tend to do it with my boyfriends, and we’re… We’re not there yet. I’d like to get there, though." You add, and is this _really_ how you’re going to do this? You’ve asked people to be your boyfriend in lame ways before, but this is the stupidest by far. "Can that be a thing we, uh, we do? Maybe?"

_Smooth._

"That was the worst way anyone has ever asked anyone else out, _ever_." Dirk says flatly, staring at you with an eyebrow up in disbelief. At least he’s looking up at you now, not hiding his face! That’s a start. "Only an absolute idiot would say yes to something that ridiculous."

Your expression drops along with your gaze, until a towel whacks into your face and your drag it off, glaring at him. Dirk shrugs at you, turning away.

"Aren’t you lucky I’m feeling stupid today."

All you can do for a moment is twist your hands up into the damp fabric that’s assaulting your nose with the scent of shampoo, watching him vanish out towards your kitchen as a numb feeling fills your head. This weird sensation of distance, of not quite believing what just happened; the worry you might wake up at any moment.

You pinch yourself, and feel stupid when all it does is leave your arm stinging.

_He said yes._

He was a dick about it, but he just said _yes_.

You fistpump to yourself like the mature adult you are, then follow him quickly, showing him where to find the cereal and milk and not even blinking at the various colourful puppets you have to move out of your way.

.:.

You end up watching Hot Fuzz together, with Dirk giving you full commentary on why the film before your eyes is a better comedy than anything you’ve picked out so far. He’s rambling about cornettos and in-jokes and something about fences, and your blank stare just leaves him lamenting you for never having watched some other prequel (but somehow also unrelated) film you totally need to. Though he’s glaring when you argue with him and try to stifle your laughs at the regrettably good movie, it doesn’t change the fact his head is against your shoulder and your hand is twisting distractedly through his hair, marvelling at how fluffy it is when he doesn’t have a thousand products trapping it in place.

The movie winds down and as the credits roll you find yourself not really that inclined to move, quite content just to rest here with him beside you. You’re not yet comfortable enough that this feels entirely normal - no, you’re _well_ aware of him beside you. His pressure on your side, the little sounds of his breaths, the way his hand has settled on your stomach and his thumb is brushing over the fabric of your shirt. The contact is nice, even though it’s nothing like the night before-

Which you are going to _stop_ thinking about, holy _shit_! You’re not _that_ desperate that you’re going to do nothing but imagine if it had gone differently.

_Well…_

Okay, maybe you _are_ that desperate, but you can control yourself. You’re going to do this properly and be a gentleman about it.

Right.

"So we have a whole day to waste, unless you’ve got some thrilling shit going down you haven’t mentioned." Dirk nudges you, and it draws out an affirmative hum as you consider all the possibilities of a day with him. "Do you have any plans to make me swoon, or is it up to me to figure shit out again?"

"Again?" You repeat, and he rolls his eyes.

"So far I’ve been the one doing the date thing. You need to get your ass in gear, John, so far I haven’t been doing much swooning."

"Bullshit, you’ve swooned plenty."

Dirk snickers, shoving you lightly, before sliding down so he flops onto your lap with his arms folded behind his head.

"You caught me, I’ve obviously been wooed completely by your incredible romantic talents," the asshole simpers, fluttering his lashes up at you. "I mean sure, I picked the restaurant, I picked the movie, I made the move, but oh man. You totally smashed some cakes in my face and came _this_ close to banging me, so that’s basically the same."

"I'm pretty sure I did more than that, loser," you reply with a jab to his ribs that makes him jump and slap your chest. "I'm totally the one that actually asked-"

"You mean when you stammered your way through the stupidest bullshit I've ever heard and I had to pierce the veil of nonsense to find the actual question hidden so deep under it I nearly drowned in the recovery attempt? Oh man, yeah, how could I forget? So smooth. Fresh-shaved legs ain't got nothing on you."

He gets another poke for that, but he still snickers, dragging himself up with your suspenders in a way that would make you complain if it didn't end in a firm kiss to your lips.

You guess you can live with this.

Obviously it'll be _such_ a struggle, but you'll survive, especially if the light at the end of the tunnel is a fine tush and the sweetest smile you've ever seen.

At least, it is when it isn't being smothered by his ridiculous poker face.

You press your forehead to his, grinning affectionately when he rubs your noses together.

"Dork," Dirk mumbles, but just for one moment you're pretty sure it's the sweetest, most romantic thing anyone's ever said.

.:.

Eventually you decide between you to go and get lunch, which is easier said than done when Dirk has stupidly high standards that you're 100% sure he's just faking to annoy you, and you get sick of suggestions clearly only picked because they can be used in some kind of pun.

When he leans against you at an intersection and seductively trails his fingers up your tie, before whispering in a voice that would make a pornstar blush, _Papa John's_ , you nearly crash into the person in front of you and loudly announce you're going to fucking Applebee's, dammit! 

Your pretentious prick of a passenger giggles all the way there.

At least you gain back some ground when he stumbles over his order so many times you're worried he's having a meltdown, able to lay down all that sweet seduction but stumped by the concept of fries.

They leave with your order, you laugh, Dirk kicks you under the table...

And you start to realise, as you share a corny milkshake between his comments on the cliche, you wouldn't have this any other way.

.:.

Your romantic fuzziness is at an all-time high when you get back to the apartment block, holding his hand like you're six again as he tugs you up the stairs. Not even the stiff way Dirk grabbed you as though you might escape, or the way he punched you when you whispered _gay_ , actually brought you down from cloud nine.

Nope, you're pretty sure you live up here now.

It's a great place to be! From floating so high on blissful amour, you can see the places you've been with Dirk now, all sparkly and wrapped in the rose-tint of romance, and of course you can see your apartments, whose very proximity is why you have a boyfriend at all...

And the pizza boy, lurking outside Dirk's door.

You don't actually care until Dirk abruptly lets go of your hand.

Like that, you've plummeted back down to earth, wiggling your empty fingers as Dirk strides up the stairs ahead of you and leaves you blinking in his wake. Oh. Alright then.

(No, not alright, what the _fuck _?)__

"Yo, Jake. Wasn't expecting you." The pizza guy turns and grins at the words, and they share a fist bump he manages to make look awkward (how? It's just bumping knuckles! How can anyone do that _badly_?) before he drags Dirk into a hug that involves far too much touching of behinds and hearty slaps on backs for your liking.

Didn't Dirk say they'd dated?

Hm.

You think you will call him _the enemy_.

"Strider! I was starting to wonder where the devil you'd scampered off to, you scoundrel. You're friggin' hard to corner when you want to be, aren't you?"

_The enemy who comes from 1909._

"I was just out with, uh." Dirk looks back to you, and something in his expression says _go along with me_ , so you pour everything into making your eyes say _fuck no_. "John. You remember him? My neighbour."

"Ah, yes! The fellow with the equine extra on his fine supper, I do recall." Jake practically lifts Dirk out of the way, coming at you with a bouncing stride that looks frankly ridiculous on someone as stocky and short as him. He thrusts out a dark hand and you stare at it with all the venom you can muster, but somehow that does nothing to dampen the glittering, movie-star smile you want to wipe off his face. "Jake English, I'm Dirk's _best bro_ as all those abreast of the raddest jargon are saying these days. Good to meet you, gramps."

He did _not_ just-

"John ain't that old, Jake," Dirk interjects as you open your mouth to tell him in less polite terms that you are young and spry as _fuck_ thank you, you little suckling douchewad who's clearly barely out of diapers. Jake just laughs, forgoing the attempt at a handshake to clap your shoulder with enough force it feels like he's trying to break it in half.

"No offence, mate! That fine facial decoration does add a few years, and the stunner of a fashion statement doesn't help."

He actually snaps your suspenders with his thumb.

You are going to commit a _murder_.

Dirk snorts and shakes his head at the door as he slides the key in and gets it open, turning and nodding inside. "Guess it's my place, then. Wanna come in for a coffee while I sort Jake out, John?"

If the alternative is leaving them alone together, you'll drink the shittiest coffee known to man rather than go home. You nod an agreement, and consider that at least you get a look into the lair of mischief and motherfucking puppets that you've wondered about so long, even it it is with present company. Jake babbles about how whatever he's here to plague your boyfriend with won't take a minute, and he does it all with a grin that's either bumbling idiot or carefully calculated innocent-looking seduction, which makes you wrinkle up your nose and your fine, _youthful_ moustache.

You never thought you were the jealous sort, but it looks like all it took to prove you wrong was an asshole with a ludicrous accent and hair so askew it's almost as dumb as Dirk's.

Jake bounds off like a dog chasing its master, and you pursue at a more mature (but not _too_ mature) leisurely pace. After the puppy scampers into Dirk's home, the Strider stops you, giving you a silent, sidelong look. You don't know what he's trying to signal to you in that weird, silent way Dave does too sometimes, but whatever it is you don't like it. Your response is to swat his hand away, stalking past him with your head held high.

You make a point of ignoring his exasperated sigh.

The first thing that strikes you about Dirk's home is that it's... _normal_. There's a big television in front of a futon, looping through images from Dave's films like a screensaver, and posters from other films and animes on the walls, along with pictures you think Dirk might've drawn himself. A work bench sits with a nice-looking computer setup and mixed metal parts and tools resting atop it, and beyond that it's a mirror of your apartment, plain and simple, and-

And that is definitely a naked dude in horse gear on his screen.

Ah, yes. _Now_ you're sure Dirk lives here.

You feel Dirk flash past you and the screen goes black before Jake has even finished settling onto the futon, but the damage is done. You giggle as you approach, earning a glare from Dirk and a confused look from Jake that stops your amusement dead. Right. Can't let the enemy see your weaknesses.

"So what’s up, English?" Dirk’s attention thankfully turns to Jake, pulling those dumb green eyes away from you. "What drags you back to my humble abode? Ain’t movie night or anything."

"And I can’t just show a little camaraderie and wander on down to my best chum’s abode for no reason other than wanting to lay eyes on him?"

Dirk’s sceptical look says no. No, Jake can’t. You stifle another giggle at the embarrassed look that the dumb smile finally fades into, moving up and sliding onto the other end of the futon, if only so Dirk can’t sit there. After an uncomfortable silence between them that you take delight in, Jake scratches at the hairy back of his neck (there’s a thing called a razor he might want to look into, wow, your Dad would have a _field day_ with him) and gives a nervous bleat of a laugh.

"...Well alright, you caught my scarlet mitts! I do have a thingamajig I need your sharp lookers to take a gander at because it’s got me all discombobulated and Grandma isn’t about to puzzle the blasted bugger out herself." Jake pats at his shorts, which you swear are shorter every single time you have the misfortune to glance down at the khaki monstrosities, and pulls out a silver cube with an insignia on it you vaguely recognise as belonging to some technology company Jade is involved in. "Here’s the spiffy little devil. Found it poking about in those dangblasted ruins, thought you could see what makes it tick."

It really, _really_ annoys you that Dirk’s eyes light up and he pulls his shades off, moving forward and swiping the cube like it’s made of pure diamond. He turns it in one hand as he uses the other to ruffle up Jake’s hair, and the motion has your stomach deciding to tie itself in a painfully tight knot.

"Gimme a sec," your boyfriend mumbles, hurrying over to a door you assume is his bedroom, from the layout of your own home. He’s vanished inside without another word, and beyond the odd shuffle and whir from inside, you’re alone with Jake in a silence that grows heavier with each passing moment.

"So!" Jake finally announces, clapping his hands on his thick knees, somewhere beneath the bush of hair that comprises his legs. "John, ey? Sorry about all that malarkey with the pizza! All Dirk’s bright idea and darn if that schemer doesn’t know just how to get his way."

You really don’t want to think about what was involved in that transaction, because you have a feeling it’s only going to make that knot turn into a fully-fledged bow so extravagant you could put in on a prom dress.

"Isn’t like him to entertain company, have to say. He’s a loner with a heart of gold brighter than the sun, but indubitably a loner all the same." Jake says it like it’s not common knowledge, even though you’d totally got that before you even knew him from the fact he wrote you a fucking letter instead of knocking on your door. "Any reason you were canoodling with the sheik?"

Seriously, what fucking language is he _speaking_?

Dirk’s looks all told you to stay quiet, but all that touching and how annoyingly handsome and _Dirk’s age_ Jake is (how _dare_ he be younger than you)... it’s driving you mad. Nope! You won’t have it. You’ve only just got a boyfriend, and you really don’t like anyone else being that touchy feely with him! It might be immature, it might be dumb, but it doesn’t change it.

Sorry, Dirk.

"We were on a lunch date," you tell him casually with a disinterested shrug of one shoulder, as though you totally _don’t_ take pride in the way his eyebrows rocket up. "Didn’t Dirk tell you we’re dating? I would’ve thought he’d mention it to his _best bro_."

Ha!

Eat _that._

"Whoa nelly! No, he hadn’t gabbed a darn thing about that little gem of a titbit." Unexpectedly, his eyes light up, and he shifts closer to you, smile back in full force. "That’s friggin’ aces! I thought he’d been knocked down and out for good after all the malarkey with me, I’m pleased as punch to see he’s back playing the game! Thought he was talking about you a darned smidgen more than he usually chatters on."

Dirk’s… spoken about you? To _this_ guy?

Jake punches your shoulder in a way you think is meant to be affectionate, but to be honest is just plain painful. He looks… genuinely happy, though? You’re really confused, suddenly. With the ass touching and the smile and the dating, you thought…

_Shit happened, we didn’t work out, we weren’t ever going to._

Oh. Oh, you’re an idiot.

So why the fuck was Dirk being all hush hush?

"Best of luck, mate! He’s a bit of a pickle, our Strider, takes a bit to get a good grip on his reins and learn how to beat the rodeo, though I think he’s into all that sort of nonsense. Sure you’re up to the challenge! Any man who can see a phallus on a stone baked slice and think it’s romantic enough to set his heart aflutter is just the sort of dapper and if you don’t mind me saying utterly _cuckoo_ chap Strider needs."

Well, now you’re sure of two things: That you’d misjudged things in your juvenile rush, and that Jake is unaware of literally _everything_ that comes out of his mouth.

"Uh… thanks?" It’s all you can manage, but it seems to appease him, and before another ludicrous word can leave him Dirk’s door opens, prompting Jake to lean back and look over there instead.

"It’s another server. Fancy one. Looks like someone beat you down there, dude, can’t tell you this is anything other than modern tech dropped by someone who wasn’t paying attention, sorry." Dirk tosses the cube back, looking like nothing’s been done to it at all, and though he fumbles Jake manages to catch it. "Might wanna get a hacker to take a look, not me."

"Noted! I’ll get right on her tail and see if she can’t get some juicy morsels from this little scamp." Jake jumps up, puppy hopping over and tugging Dirk into another hug, though this one bothers you significantly less. "Congrats on the new shindig! Should’ve mentioned it, chum!"

"What," Dirk states, and it isn’t a question, his eyes boring into you with feverish intensity. You grin weakly back, thankfully free of that piercing glare when Jake pulls back and slaps his arm.

"I’d best be off galavanting to our dear lady rogue to see if she can break open this treasure chest, but you two have a swell time!" He aims a wave at you, nudges Dirk again, and then swans off to the door. "Toodle pip!"

And like that, hurricane Jake is gone, leaving Dirk’s mood and the english language in a wrecked heap behind him.

" _What did you tell him?_ " Holy _shit_ you’re starting to hate it when Dirk moves that quickly, because you’ve barely blinked and he’s in front of you, hands on your shoulders. You shake him off, standing and glaring down at him. "John! This is _important_! Didn’t you pick up on my fucking hints?"

"I picked up on your ridiculous bullshit, yes!" You try to sound angry, but to be honest you’re mostly worried, because if it wasn’t what you thought, maybe it _was_ something serious, and maybe you _have_ messed up… but then again, Dirk could’ve spoken to you! Pulled you aside! Not pulled all that stupid cloak and dagger stuff you had to drag Dave out of kicking and screaming! No, you’re not going to give in, you had every right to tell that other kid- young man- that _dufus_ the truth! "I told Jake we’re dating. Why wouldn’t I? He seemed really pleased for us! What’s wrong with him knowing?"

"It’s not him I don’t want to-" Dirk moans, covering his face. "Okay, okay, I can still salvage this, I just need to talk to her before-"

"Who’s _her_?!"

"It doesn’t- Where’s my phone, shit, I don’t have long before-"

He rushes back towards his bedroom, leaving the door ajar, and you lean back enough to get an eyeful of colourful puppet ass and what you swear are parts of robots. Huh. There’s the weirdness you were looking for. Before you can really examine it, his house phone is ringing, trilling out a high pitched tune that’s so off-key it hurts, and leading you to start hunting it out when he shouts for you to get it, still throwing things around to try to find his mobile.

You feel uncomfortable going through his things, even after he’s been thoroughly through yours for his little puppet attack, and you hesitate for a good through moments before sheepishly starting to push his papers and parts aside. It doesn’t take _that_ long to find the phone, but by the time you do it reaches it’s final ring, the answerphone telling the caller to leave a message after the tone while Dirk stumbles out and stares at the handset in your grasp.

"Who is it?" He asks, voice full of dread, and you push up your glasses to squint down at the screen.

"Uh… It just says H-4-XX-"

" _Shit,_ " He interrupts, covering his eyes as that beep plays and a woman clears her voice on the machine.

" _Yooooo_ Dirky, a lil’ birdy told me y’all got some news for mumma Rolal that you’ve been a bad, _bad_ boy an’ kept all to yourself! I hope you’ve got a lot to say ‘bout tall, broad an’ mustachioed ‘cause I’m gonna need a whole lotta gossip ‘bout that hunk before I let you live this down, bubba. You should call me an’ give me the low down before I get to takin’ some drastic measures, hmm? I’ll be waitin’ for your call, Dick- Dirk. Better be a goodun."

She hangs up, and you look at Dirk, who looks back at you, managing a weak smile.

"What the fuck?" You ask blankly, and he sighs deeply, switching off his mobile and collapsing against you, burying his face in your shirt.

"Don’t ask and we can make out."

You weigh it up for several minutes. You have a lot of questions, and that voice is nagging at you, something familiar about it you can’t place, even if you _ignore_ the request for gossip about you ( _hunk_ , though).

A reasonable adult would push him back and tell him to explain what all this stupid fuss was about.

Luckily, you are _not_ a reasonable adult.

"Let’s make out."

"Thank _God_ ," Dirk breathes in relief, and then his lips are pressed up against yours, and all those worries and concerns can wait until the jealous part of your brain stops demanding more kisses and affection to soothe all your stupid, immature feelings away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~There we go. Khemi sucks at Jake and Roxy: Confirmed.~~


	5. The Perils of a Birthday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dirk's Birthday appears from nowhere, and is apparently a big deal- or isn't? And why are this many people even _allowed_ in one apartment??

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH MY GOD IT'S A CHAPTER.
> 
> WHEEZES.
> 
> The fic, it RISES FROM THE UNDEATH OF HIATUS.

TT: Hey, John.   
TT: I know you’re at work right now, but I have some real important feelings I need to share with you from the bottom of my sweet, loving heart.   
TT: I can’t hold it in any longer, I can’t stop feeling this way.   
TT: You just have to know.   
TT: Apple juice tastes like shit.   
TT: I don’t know what drug you were smoking when you decided to buy the bottled cumpiss of the most overrated of fruits, but somehow you looked at that murky bodily expulsion and you thought “hell yes, I want to have that inside me.”   
TT: You paid actual human dollars for the festering pus sitting in our fridge and threatening to drown me in a golden shower that will taste like sugary death.   
TT: Why would you do this to me?   
TT: I’ve done so much for you. I’ve abided your awful taste in movies, I’ve ironed your clothes, I’ve programmed your VCR, I’ve ridden your dick-   
TT: Wait no I’ve done none of those things.   
TT: But I am your boyfriend and in the unspoken contractual agreement that entails rule number one clearly states NO FUCKING APPLE JUICE WITHIN THIRTY MILES OF ME.   
TT: And thirty miles is being kind, John.   
TT: I scaled that zone down for you.   
TT: I am not Dave, and I am scandalized you could confuse us, because that’s the only reasonable explanation for why you would darken our home like this.   
TT: I feel its presence. It’s haunting me.   
TT: I’m getting weak, John. Soon it might overwhelm me, and then I’ll have to drink of its poison chalice, and you’ll find me dead of shitty juice on the floor.  
TT: Does anyone want that, John?  
TT: Do YOU want that?   
EB: holy fucking shit i’ll get you orange juice on the way back you nerd.   
TT: <3  
EB: why am i dating you again??   
TT: Because I may not have ridden your dick yet, but you live in hope.   
EB: …   
EB: i hate you.   
TT: No you don’t, my sweet little blueberry pie.   
TT: Now get home before I’m the first ever person to die of apple juice poisoning.   
TT: The clock is ticking.   
EB: sigh.   


You've been living with Dirk Strider for three months now, and it's certainly been an _experience._

You wouldn't say you regret inviting him to move in, at least not right now, but most of the time you do wonder what sort of insanity you let into your life when you helped him carry his bags up that one flight of stairs that had always sepsrated you. It isn't just the puppets, or the horse porn, or the rapping you hear near constantly from around the apartment when he isn't deciding to be a shitty ninja who springs out at you from nowhere and scares you half to death.

No. It's something more pervasive than that. The feeling you have lost control of your life and the barely legal shit who has draped himself across every part of it is to blame.

TT: John.  
TT: John where are you.   
TT: I'm dying John.   
TT: If the thirst doesn't get to me the hunger will.  
EB: dirk there is food RIGHT THERE!!  
EB: microwave something.   
TT: Hahahahahaha.  
TT: "Microwave something."   
TT: What a ridiculous idea.  
TT: So when will you be back?   
EB: you're a grown man.   
TT: You're a more grown man, and you should provide for the young and feeble.   
EB: >:(   
TT: John, there is a 89.55% chance you are shirking your duties as Dirk's significant other.  
TT: And by duties I mean keeping the dude alive.  
TT: While his imminent demise doesn't exactly bother me, I'd rather he survived long enough to make me mobile first.  
TT: Wow. 

Oh, and of course there's his talking glasses.

You have lost control of _everything_.

A sane person might be worried.

EB: oh no, i'm being tag-teamed by the two biggest dorks in existence!!  
EB: how can i cope with their vast intellect and obvious coolness???   
EB: i can feel my pitiful iq dropping already.  
TT: John, you are aware Dirk can instruct me to purge all of your hard drives of every movie that's on them, aren't you?  
TT: I totally could, bro. My trigger finger is feeling awful itchy.  
EB: you wouldn't dare.  
TT: That's a joke, right?  
EB: ...   
EB: i'll be ten minutes.  
TT: That's what I thought.

You get a few odd looks as you snicker your way down the drinks aisle, scooping the promised orange juice into your cart. The threats are something you're used to, but you know when you get home Dirk will lay on the ground whining until you provide him with a meal, and you'll be the one who gets to tease him and barter for kisses before you allow him his microwaved feast. Sure, it might not be the most mature way to spend an evening, but fuck that! It's fun, it's ridiculous, and every single time you do it you realise once again how stupidly smitten you are with the anime-haired prick who now shares your home.

There are downsides to it, of course. Jake English bursts in every Sunday night to watch movies with your significant other, and although you're no longer worried about him trying to steal Dirk away (or anyone away, for that matter, given in loud discussions he has explained quite cheerfully how uninterested he is in _that_ sort of thing) he still manages to be as loud, ridiculous and unintelligible as he was the first time you met him. The first time he whipped out two pistols to show you them by pointing them at your face you screamed. You're now as practised as Dirk is in ducking the moment his guns are mentioned.

On the plus side, he makes a _divine_ pumpkin pie.

By contrast, Dave has been staying less since Dirk moved in, by which you mean he sneaks in at 3am and wakes you up without disturbing Dirk, then vanishes out of a window before morning, or else turns up looking as cool as he can manage during the day and goes into a mode you can only describe as _the full Strider,_ entering into the cryptic dance of bullshittery and swords that seems to be how he and Dirk communicate. Sometimes before he leaves he throws confetti over you both and asks when he's going to get grandkids.

He always makes it out of the door before you can throw him out of it.

Hal, meanwhile, is... Well. An enigma wrapped up in stupid crap wrapped up in made up statistics wrapped up in a lame movie reference. When Dirk told you about his Auto-responder, you laughed so hard you nearly cried. Then he decided to let Hal break into all your devices and constantly remind you of his presence, and since then you've come to grudgingly accept the asshole is a real thing. A snide, manipulating, sarcastic real thing.

So basically he's just like Dirk, but as he reminds you often, you have even less chance of fucking him.

Only by like, 0.001%.

Mac and cheese is dumped into your cart, the perfect meal for your sweet prince. Between that and the cakes you keep being asked to bake, you have no idea how he's kept his figure, but you suspect it has something to do with the conversations your other neighbours have about "that sword-wielding lunatic on the roof" that you keep hearing in passing. You'd always assumed that was Dave, before now, but no. Of course not. It _has_ to be your dweeb of a boyfriend who once decided to flirt with you by shouting about his swords and then laying down on the floor until you stopped guffawing at him.

To make it up to him, you let him show you his entire collection, and have never seen his eyes shine so bright as when he was describing each blade to you in detail, complete with just how its individual characteristics made it ideal for a certain type of move or combat style. Sometimes you let him ramble about his swords just to see that childish glee again, plain as day no matter how good the rest of his pokerface is.

All in all, it's been an interesting few months, and you still have a feeling more is yet to come.

You only watch movies with Dirk, now.

You turn them down to hear his voice instead.

.:.

"It's my birthday soon," He announces out of the blue one day in late November, collapsing onto your lap and wrapping his arms around your neck.

"Oh." Is it? When _is_ Dirk's birthday? _How do you not know that?_ "Of... course it is?"

"Mhm. Jake wants me to have a party. Something shitty and cliche with balloons and tiny food that's about as filling as dust, and a stupidly big cake that we can drown our sorrows in because alcohol won't be an option." Dirk huffs, thumb running across the ridge of your spine and forehead pressing to your own. You're not sure why a party is such a burden given the whole free-food-and-gifts thing, but he looks like a puppy that's been kicked by the boot of celebratory joy. "You should make the cake. I want a million tiers. Chocolate orange ones. Decorate them with feathers. And ponies. And swords. Ponies with swords. Fighting aliens."

"Uh-"

" _Ponies with swords fighting aliens._ "

You're going to need a _lot_ of marzipan.

Before you can ask a single question about the party, Dirk hops up and saunters to your room, leaving you blinking at the air you were considering making out with.

Despite your constant questions, he doesn't mention his birthday or a party again.

.:.

EB: WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU DIDN’T THINK I’D WANT TO KNOW WHEN HIS BIRTHDAY IS?????  
TG: its not a big deal dude  
TG: its just his birthday  
TG: its not like its the one day the world celebrates his existence or anything  
TG: the one day we all gather to appreciate the fact dirk is a living trashbaby who was gifted to me via my mothers gaping cavern of a vagina nineteen years ago  
TG: the one day that everyone who loves him has memorised and would never ever forget  
EB: HOW CAN I MEMORISE SOMETHING I DON’T KNOW, DAVE????????  
TG: now now this isnt the time for excuses john   
TG: now is the time for apologies  
EB: FROM YOU!!  
EB: APOLOGIES FROM *YOU*!!!!!   
TG: theres no need to point fingers  
TG: have you spoken to rose about this inability to deal with your own shortcomings   
EB: next time i see you climbing in my window i’m going to push you out of it.  
TG: its a good job you wont see me then  
TG: im just too slick  
TG: too fast   
TG: like a ninja in the forest of skyscrapers  
TG: leaping from concrete tree to concrete tree and moseying on in through the windows of sleeping assholes before they know what hit them  
TG: a shadow on your wall thats in your house in your fridge and in your wife before you know what happened  
EB: i don’t think karkat would be too happy about that.  
TG: what he doesnt know wont hurt him   
TG: and i seriously mean hurt him im worried the dudes head is gonna explode someday through sheer force of rage  
EB: it’s a fear we all share.  
EB: it still doesn’t mean i’ve forgiven you for not telling me when dirk’s birthday was!!  
TG: wow  
TG: you know i was over here thinking if you wanted to know youd do something crazy like  
TG: i dont know   
TG: asking dirk   
TG: instead of creeping behind his back to his big bro all yo dude if i trade you these shitty films will you slip me some black market information about that little twink i wanna get my freak on with   
TG: and expecting me to just go oh hey yeah sure heres a dossier on that sweet ass i raised have fun getting into his pants with it   
EB: DAVE!!!  
TG: john  
EB: this isn’t about getting into his pants it’s about feeling bad i haven’t planned anything for his birthday!!  
EB: i could’ve thought of a present and got it all ready instead of having to do this last minute and rushing!  
EB: i don’t care if i never get into his pants and i’m getting tired of people thinking it’s all i care about!!!!!  
EB: did it ever occur to you maybe i care about dirk?  
EB: about your actual brother???  
EB: not just his dick?????   
TG: …   
TG: alright  
TG: you pass   
EB: i what   
TG: i didnt tell you it was his birthday because dirk hates celebrating it   
TG: the day dawns and he acts like world war three just broke out over how many candles need to go on the cake of his life  
TG: break out the heavy artillery we got a relighting one private  
TG: theres more than one i repeat more than one lock that shit down before people realise im aging  
TG: he launches into the kitchen no mans land to wreck its shit before it gets delivered to its final destination and the insidious plot to reveal hes a grown up comes to fruition  
TG: icing and cake guts everywhere  
TG: no candles to be seen  
TG: presents evacuated before he turns his blade on them and leaves a shiny paper mess across the floor as a tragic reminder of their sacrifice  
TG: hes a one man commando squad on a mission to end birthday cheer  
TG: battling the evil forces of happiness and joy before they break his stoic shell   
TG: and im doing the thing let me stop doing the thing im a grown man time to lock that rambling shit back in the chest of childhood  
TG: im rambling about not rambling jesus christ how hard is it for me to say something short and sweet  
TG: im doing it again fuck stop me john before i drown in my own words and the world never gets to experience my beauty again  
EB: dave.   
TG: right   
TG: so   
TG: yeah his birthday is a no go zone  
TG: i know you like making a fuss over this shit and i didnt want you to accidentally set off his weird anti birthday complex  
TG: for us it was never a big thing we just handed gifts to each other and parted ways  
TG: that was that  
TG: no cakes no parties and definitely no singing   
TG: just a normal day with more sweet loot  
TG: thats how it worked  
EB: you could have just told me that, dude.  
TG: because ive always been so socially adept in conversation  
EB: ...point taken.   
TG: also dont even pull any bullshit about not being able to ask dirk   
TG: you couldve asked him at literally any point  
TG: he isnt some fucking fortune telling machine you have to stick a quarter in to get vague information out of it  
TG: hes actually a human being who can hold a conversation and answer questions  
TG: like when is your birthday oh love of mine  
EB: i was dumb and didn’t think about it, okay?  
EB: i assumed he’d tell me.  
TG: he was probably hoping you wouldnt even know   
TG: he could just sneak the whole joyous occasion past you behind a veil of macking on you and conceding to your shitty taste in movies  
TG: no fuss  
TG: no fun   
TG: and no reminder of his constant shuffling towards the end of his mortal coil   
TG: usually his friends let him get away with that shit  
TG: crocker makes him a cake with no reference to the big number whatever the number has decided to be that year  
TG: english buys him shit and goes and watches a film with him and for one whole night of the year refrains from making out with an avatar poster while longingly explaining how great the whole spirit mind bond thing would be  
TG: one whole night john that takes that weird little jungle boy effort   
TG: and lalonde just  
TG: idek  
TG: is lalonde  
TG: drunk and in the distance   
EB: rose isn’t a drunk, dave.  
TG: i know she isnt   
TG: never said i meant her  
EB: um.  
TG: no idea what shook up the little loser squad this year   
TG: must be something going down  
TG: they know better than to do this without good reason  
TG: be on your guard egbert  
EB: what.  
TG: maybe pack a hammer or two when you go   
EB: what??  
TG: beware the wrath of the dweebs   
EB: dave if you want to start making sense at any point that would be great!!!   
TG: gotta split actually  
TG: stiller says were about to shoot again  
TG: apparently they need my infallible guidance  
EB: dave this is kind of important!!!!  
TG: so is the whole making a hollywood movie thing asshole  
TG: come on youll be fine  
TG: its just a birthday  
TG: how bad can it possibly be

.:.

Very bad. Very, _very_ bad.

Dirk’s birthday hits with no warning, no real preparation, a vague sense of doom and a blast of glittery pink confetti to your face.

Well, more specifically it _begins_ with waking up alone and a note beside you hastily scribbled out in the messy gold gel-pen that you bought Dirk for _ironic purposes._

Man the battle-stations and don’t let them breach the castle.

Shit’s getting _real_ tonight.

At some point you decided dating him was a good idea. You still have no idea what was going through your mind. It’s the same mad spark that flits around the back of your head as you accept quite calmly that Dirk is nowhere to be found, and arm yourself covertly as though you are in fact about to be attacked from the shadows of your own, locked home.

(Although to be fair, between Dave and Dirk you no longer have _any_ faith in the idea of a locked door.)

There are more notes waiting for you through your morning routine. The bathroom mirror warns you trust no one and the fridge door explains if anyone asks Dirk Strider died a year ago. Cereal empties into your bowl with a note that flutters down and yells everyone is compromised. You can’t even trust yourself, bro. You’re only vaguely surprised when you go to collect your mail and find a pile of notes as thick as a book that all say be prepared.

You neatly stack all the notes you’ve found so far (and of course there’s going to be more, this is _Dirk_ ), placing them on your letter pile and then settling down to watch a film with only the _smallest_ hint of oh-God-maybe-the-world-is-ending dread.

And yet the loud banging on your door that interrupts you feels _inevitable._

There’s paper pinned to the inside of your door.

For the love of all that’s holy don’t open this shit. 

You ignore the warning in favour of being a mature adult.

Regret hits you a second after the confetti does, the world exploding into pink and silver that smacks into your glasses hard enough to shove them into your face. There’s a faint smell of gunpowder in the air, a puff of smoke clouding your vision as the glitter falls away, and through your shock you hear exciting whooping beyond the fog of birthday war.

“Happy Birf- Bird- Oh fuck it, y’know what day it is.” Manicured pink nails slice through the smoke, swatting it away before grasping for you. “Gimme some sugar-”

She stops the moment she can see you, and you take a moment to appreciate the red rifle she is holding that you suspect is what was recently fired at your face. Are you dead now? Is this hell? Probably. The shooter blinks at you, then pouts, putting her free hand on her thrust-out hip as she slings the _very large gun she is holding_ over her shoulder.

“Well _you_ ain’t Dirk.”

“Dirk Strider died a year ago,” your mouth provides in a high-pitched squeak before you can grasp what you’re saying, and she rolls her eyes, flipping her fringe back before aiming a disbelieving glare square at you.

“Uh huh, that so? His ghost been keepin’ his shitty Inna- Insa- Instagram goin’, then? It ain’t a mornin’ ‘til I’ve seen yet another sword or puppet through a hipster filter.” Her voice shares exactly the same enthusiasm you feel for Dirk’s photographic exploits, and inwardly you’re glad you’re not alone in being done with his bullshit. You also note her voice rings a bell, and the expression you’re still being critically scanned by is unnervingly familiar. Good, a strange mystery girl you sort of know who shot you in the face without knowing who you were. You squint back at her wrinkled-up nose. “Are we _really_ gonna go through this bullshit again? ‘Cause me an’ Janey _will_ find that dork, and when we do, we _will_ make him eat cake.”

Wait.

“Why did you hit me in the face if you thought I was Dirk? He’s short and I’m-”

“Mister tall, handsome and mustachioed,” she hums, winking. “Gotta admit it was one hell of an ice-breaker though, amirite?”

The girl from the phone.

You’d _almost_ forgotten.

“I’mma just gonna call you John, ‘cause Mumma told me to be nice.” She sticks out a hand, and you peer at it like it’s going to bite you. “Roxy Lalonde. Dirk’s BFF and unfortunate spawn of the queen of goth chic.”

“You’re… Rose’s daughter?”

“I know, it’s _terrible._ ” Roxy puts her hand to her head when you refuse to touch it, and between the pink and the glitter and the _pink_ and the way she looks like a cheerleader, you’d doubt they were related if it wasn’t for the fact they share the same rich skin, curvy cheeks, and the same, knowing little smile. “Not sure how I cope.”

The sarcasm is _dripping_ from her words, a tone clearly learned from her mother, and you mentally slap yourself for questioning their relationship because of something as stupid as fashion sense. She gives you a sweet smile and flutters her long lashes, stepping closer and prodding your chest.

“Ain’t y’gonna invite me in, Jaw- John?”

You know you shouldn’t. She shot you in the face. Dirk will kill you.

She seems pretty harmless, though. Beyond the shooting thing.

“Um, sure!”

You have made a _terrible_ mistake.

The moment Roxy is past you she is not so much in your apartment as in your _life,_ leaping from place to place with ecstatic glee. She's snapped a picture of the notes on your fridge, grabbed a cookie from the plate of them in the kitchen, bounded over your couch with a giggle at the way you have one orange cushion and one blue one, and then ended up straight in front of your collection of letters from Dirk, grinning at them with barely human excitement. You fumble out an objection as her long nails card through the papers like a flipbook, but she plucks out one nonetheless and clear her throat.

" _Dear asshole upstairs,_ " she intones sweetly, " _I didn't want it to come to this, but apparently repeatedly slamming on the ceiling somehow led to us becoming boyfriends? And I'm not sure how that works either so I just complain to my super great BFF about you being so hot my dick hurts and then whine like the huge baby I am."_

Her words knock you off-balance and you give a startled laugh, looking away with a flustered grin. "I don't think that's quite what it said..."

"Sure as hell shoulda done. Look at y'all bein' all domez- domast- livin' together." She waves the paper around, before carefully slipping it back into place. "Thank the blessed Lord Nick of Cage an' hallowed be Ghostbusters."

"Amen," you reply solemnly, bowing your head. At last, a prayer you can get behind! Or at least, kind of behind. It needs to mention the Holy McConaughey. "Truly, they were kind when they brought me my short little asshole with bad taste. How did I live without his constant whining? Without his intense, so-called _ninja swag?_ Without puppets so up in my shit that I can feel the ghosts of felty limbs in all my orifices?"

"Ew, that last one? Pro'ly Dirky makin' puppets hump you in your sleep. Kid's sorta messed up like that."

"I don't know if I can go on knowing I've got more dick from Cal than Dirk." Oh God. Why did you say that? The image is in your mind and far too detailed and _why is his dick so plush-?_

"Cal's big on sweet lovin'. All this time you were there thinkin' you was with Dirk, but he was just Lil Cal's wingman." Roxy skips back to your couch and drapes herself across it, folding her legs up on the arm. "A romance for the ages right there. I'mma write it all down and be even bigger than Mumma. I can see it now! Roxy Lalonde, author of the totes incredible _The Marrionette Strings Of Fate._ "

"Not as popular as _I Loved a Smuppet,"_ you retort, "my world famous autobiography."

"What about _Felt and Phallus,_ the true story of where sin an' sewn meet?" She squeals and claps her hands excitedly. "Número Uno on the New Yark- New York Times bestseller list!"

You like her. Dirk is going to be _very_ distressed.

“So.” The laugh is gone from her voice in a snap, the tone bringing your very small court to order. Roxy gives you an appraising look, steepling her fingers. “We got important matters to discuss, Johnny. Big shit goin’ down. Y’all have a nice thing goin’ here, an’ pretty soon it’s gonna be the site of the biggest event of the whole damn year.” She smiles, but it’s not so friendly any more. She’s _definitely_ Rose’s child. “Dirk’s trusted the fort to you, an’ that’s awful sweet, but now I’mma gonna need you to betray him an’ hand over the keys to the castle so we can get on w’makin’ his day memorable.”

Her fingers curl at you expectantly, and it takes you a beat to realise her request for your keys is literal. You yelp and cover the pocket holding them. No! You have _limits,_ dammit! Dave said Dirk hates his birthday, so as a good boyfriend, it’s your responsibility to make sure he doesn’t- get one? That doesn’t sound right. That his birthday is miserable! Well… _That_ doesn’t sound right _either_.

You gesture silently as you try to figure it out, rearranging the words like they’re hovering in front of you, and it only occurs to you that your keys are unprotected when you feel them being plucked out of your pocket and hear a hoot behind you.

“ _Hoo hoo!_ Too slow, _buster_.”

Oh God. There’s _more of them._

You whirl in time to see hair duck under your arm, and as you try to lunge you lose balance, toppling to the ground. With a groan, you discover your laces are neatly knotted together. A _classic._ Dad would be ashamed you fell for it.

“Why are there so many people in my house?” You whine, like the highly mature adult that you are. Roxy giggles when you push your glasses back up your nose and squint at her, and the plump ball of nefarious evil that is perched on her lap, wiggling a moustache to rival yours at you. “I only let one of you in!”

“Mhmmm,” Roxy coos, whirling the keys around her finger. “Janey snuck on by durin’ confetti-mageddon. You didn’ think I’d do that for no reason, right? Ain’t gonna waste glitter I could be usin’ to get all up in Dirk’s celebratory shit.”

“I believe we should probably let Jake in.” Janey swings her legs, bouncing her eyebrows at you to the same mocking beat. “He has _the goods,_ after all! Can’t have a good knees up without the bells and whistles. Oh, and we just _have_ to tell our Strider that this good gentleman let us in and helped!”

“We do, Jane, we do.” Roxy nods solemnly. You groan.

“He’s going to kill me!” Your life is out of control. This is the stupidest thing to happen since- Okay, well! Since at _least_ last week.

“Well at least that mystery will be a darn-tootin’ easy one.” Jane hops up, walking over and nudging you when you just moan and wiggle against the carpet. “One dead schmuck, one guilty Strider, and a whole lot of time in the slammer without a single marionette for a conjugal visit. The Birthday Caper! So many shenanigans.”

“ _All_ the shenanigans,” Roxy agrees, chipper once more. She bounces around from place to place, peering around your life without giving you a chance to complain. “Did Dave say when he was gettin’ here?”

“Should be any time! Jake’s on lookout duty, he’ll spy that slick good-for-nothing.”

“ _Dave knows about this?”_ You splutter indignantly, and Jane and Roxy both look at you like you’re an idiot. Jane pokes you with her sneaker again.

“He’s turned informant for the better cause,” she informs you, moustache swiping from side to side. “Who else did you figure ratted out the location of this hive of scum and puppetry?”

_Dave Strider is a dead man._

“Oh, don’t look so down, Johnny! We’ll take good care of everythin’, I _promise._ ” You’re hoisted up unceremoniously between them, and Roxy whacks your back hard enough to wind you, though you think maybe it was meant to comforting. “We wouldn’t _really_ let Dirk blame you! Don’t worry. Rolal got this _all_ figured out.”

“You do?” You hazard, and barely have time to catch her wicked grin before they’ve slung you sideways and lifted you off the ground like a piano being carried around in an old silent film.

“Sure thing! We’re gonna lock you up in the closet!” She explains excitedly, as you try to figure out how it is that two girls their size are so damn _strong._ “You’ll be stuck in there all day, without a clue what we’re doin’! Dirk _can’t_ blame you then!”

Oh no.

_Oh no._

You start yelling and wiggling in their grasp, and don’t stop until Jane kicks you square in the dick with an admonishment about being a no-good, rotten spoilsport. They shove you in your closet between a shirt that smells of Dirk and a puppet you have a terrible feeling you’ll be talking to, before the day is out.

.:.

You call the puppet Cameron.

.:.

Halfway through a very in-depth discussion with Cameron over whether you could make a last will and testament out of lint, the doors are wrenched open and blind you with light, leaving you both relieved and absolutely terrified of whatever is coming next. You start to babble before you’ve thought about it, still shielding your face.

“I had no idea what they were doing and they locked me in a closet and I was teamed up on and couldn’t do anything and _they locked me in a closet-_ ”

“John,” Dirk interrupts you flatly. “The door wasn’t locked.”

Of all the people in all the world, you are the dumbest. It is you. You’ve been in here _hours,_ and you never _tried the damn door._

Now your eyes have adjusted, and you lower your hands to peer at him, embarrassed. He’s covered with silly string and confetti, mouth a very flat line, his shades missing and replaced by glittery glasses shaped like cocktail glasses.

All in all, it’s rather ridiculous.

It also somehow suits him.

“I- I’m so stupid,” you stutter at him, and Dirk huffs, folding his arms. “I let her in even though you said not to and I didn’t notice my shoes and I didn’t try the door-”

“John.”

“-and I didn’t even ask about today or why you hate it and I should’ve been more thoughtful but I was just an ass and-”

_“John.”_

“-and I just wanted you to be happy but this was my fault and I’m so dumb, I- I…”

Silence rushes in as your words awkwardly peter out. Dirk is tapping his fingers on his arms, patiently waiting for you to exhaust yourself, and the fact it’s exactly what your Dad did when you were five and sulking isn’t lost on you. You pout.

“You made the cake,” Dirk announces at last, breaking the uncomfortable quiet. Oh, God. The Cake. You’d completely forgotten it, but apparently they found it, that terrible monstrosity you made to his request. Marzipan pony-bots still haunt your dreams, and early attempts at chocolate aliens litter the fridge. You flinch at the memory of their melted visages, clearing your throat.

“I… I might have done.”

He steps into the closet, reaching up to push you against the back of it, and you let him, bracing for the slap that’s coming. You knew the cake was a bad idea. Sure, he asked for it, but he hates today! Why would you do anything to do with it? Why would you encourage it, even more than letting in absolutely everyone he didn’t want around?

Okay, so maybe the cake was less of a crime, but it _is_ something you have no way to blame on anyone else.

“Sorry?” You squeak at him, and Dirk stares placidly up at you, before cupping your cheeks and rocking onto the balls of his feet to plant a long, heavy kiss against your lips.

Oh. Hm.

Blinking at nothing, you put your arms around him, heart racing and pants tenting at the tongue and teeth that are insisting to your lip he is not in fact anywhere near as angry as you thought. Your mind barely manages to respond and get those lips moving before Dirk falls back, slipping his hands into his pockets and shrugging.

“It was a good cake.”

…Well that’s one good thing today, you gue-

“We should have sex tonight.”

_What._

You open your mouth, but Dirk is already gone, and for a moment you think you were hallucinating. Luckily, your painful dick is there to ache and convince you that the last few seconds did in fact exist.

Somewhere between curling up and gingerly trying to force your dick down, you quietly pump your fist, and thank any nearby religious beings for the gift that robot ponies and aliens have brought.

.:.

You escape the closet once your pants stop rivaling the Great Pyramid, skulking around your house like you aren’t one of the only two people who actually belong there.

On the couch, Rose is sitting on Dave’s lap between Karkat and Kanaya, who both look equally confused by the fact their respective others are snorting and singing Happy Birthday in French, albeit with more _merde_ than is lyrically accurate. Behind them, Jane and Jake are all huddled up in a way you know you will come to associate with trouble, and as you squint suspiciously their way Jane shoots you a grin and a wink, waving a spoon at you that still contains traces of the whipped frosting you are licking off your fingers.

…She cooks well. The cupcake was delicious. You suppose you can at least accept her in your kitchen.

Dirk is talking to a girl with red glasses you have never seen before in your life, though as is becoming a theme today you suspect she is probably Jade’s never before seen aunt or something. She cackles obnoxiously, and you divert from heading towards them, preferring to be as far away from _that_ sound as is possible.

That’s how you find Jade and Roxy, gathered around your sink, making a baking soda and vinegar volcano out of wrapping paper.

“What are you doing?” It’s a stupid question, and their smiles both drop as they look at you with all the judgment they are capable of. You sigh and just raise your hands, and with that they stop caring about your existence, squealing happily as they complete the ritual and foam rockets up to splash your walls and ceiling.

Oh good. More to clean.

“John!” Jade grabs you as Roxy takes pictures on her phone. She shakes you, beaming madly, your thoughts all bouncing around your brain as it rattles inside your skull. “John, you didn’t tell me Roxy is a scientist!”

“I met her today,” you jitter out, teeth clattering. Jade snorts.

“That’s no excuse!” Of course it isn’t. Why are you even surprised. She turns away, scooping Roxy up into a hug and getting a pleased giggle out of her. “We’re going to be science buddies! Doing the science! I’ve never known anyone who was interested in things like this before!”

“Jade says she has a whole lab! We’re gonna go an’ do experiments!” Roxy squeaks with delight. “Isn’t that _awesome?_ It’s gonna be so much fun!”

They start holding hands and bouncing, despite the fact Jade is twice Roxy’s age and height, and you take the opportunity to back the fuck up and get out of there before you get sucked into a world of weird, third-grade science that apparently just became the coolest thing ever.

Backing up has its own unfortunate side-effects, because you back straight into Jane and Miss Red Glasses, who both give you an identical smile that wouldn’t look that out of place on a shark.

 _Dammit._

Why are there so many _people._

“So this is the defendant?” Red sniffs at you, holding her tongue between her teeth as that awful grin spreads. “I bet he tastes like _trouble._ ”

“Trouble and sugar, I do declare, going by the evidence I collected in the kitchen.” Jane waggles a bag at you, containing the very cookies you made last night. If they’re after a cooking master, you have indeed been _busted._ “Had a poor, innocent birthday held hostage,” she adds, shaking her head in disappointment. “We barely got the bash out alive!”

“Terrible,” Red agrees, stabbing at your foot with the cane she’s grasping with vicious intent. “Can’t have a criminal like that just running around.”

“A hooligan of his caliber at large? Gosh, no! I simply can’t imagine it.”

Between the cackles and the _hoo hoo_ s, you get this weird idea they _might_ be making fun of you. You huff accordingly.

“Can’t the, uh, _defendant_ get a chance to _defend_ himself?” You put your hands on your hips and twitch your moustache - the clearly _better_ moustache, _thank you_ \- at them. You’ll play this dumb game, if only because you’re pretty sure if you don’t that cane is going to be aimed at your ribs next. “I want to know what charges you’re pressing!”

It occurs to you when Red bounces up on her heels and guffaws that this was a terrible decision.

“He wants to know the charges, Miss Crocker.”

“That he does, Miss Pyrope.”

Then twitter together and huddle with their faces away from you, flipping a coin after sharing hissing whispers. Pyrope catches it, and then they squint down at whatever it landed on, looking over their shoulders at you when you try to peer at it yourself. The two turn back to you, looking very formal.

“Lucky break,” Pyrope mutters, flicking a scratched coin at you. What is this, Batman? Oh God. The image of icicle dildos returns, and you shudder as you flail the coin back at her.

“I do say you are accused of gross negligence of a birthday, Mister Egbert, if that _is_ your real name.” Jane stalks forward, poking you in your chest, eyes narrowed up at you. Not the Mister Egbert, not again. Next they’ll be buying you fedoras. “And good grief, worse that _that,_ you are accused of allowing a good pal of mine to run off all by his lonesome on a day he should’ve been having a swell time!”

“But Dirk doesn’t _like_ his birthday!” You are whining. There is no other way to describe your tone of voice. You are John Egbert, you are a grown-up, and you are whining at a teenager in your balloon and ribbon filled living room.

Pyrope leans over and whispers in Jane’s ear, the two of them sharing serious glances and mutters like this is anything other than pure stupid. Which it is. This isn’t sane, or sensible, or serious!

_This is stupid._

“What evidence do you have to present to the court?” Pyrope asks you, tapping her cane on the ground. You still have no idea who she is, but that doesn’t seem to matter! Probably another friend of Dirk, as they all share that wonderful talent for being batshit _crazy._

“Evidence? I- Aren’t you his _friends?_ Don’t you _know_ that?” You splutter, waving your hands. Ah yes, convincing, John. Spot on. “He doesn’t like birthdays. I made him the cake he wanted, but that’s _all_ he wanted! I- Wait!” Eureka! “I have notes from him! Telling me not to let any of you in! I submit those to the court!”

_Hah!_

Oh God, you’re actually acting like this is a serious thing too. They’re suckering you in.

Ignoring the thought as aggressively as you can, you run over to your note pile, dodging around Jake when he tries to speak to you. You fumble out the gold-covered cards, sidestepping a _very_ drunk Dave in order to shove the evidence- _Dammit._ The cards that are in no way _proof of anything_ because you are _not in a court,_ at Jane and Pyrope.

They look them over critically.

Pyrope _licks one._

“Oooh, _lemony_ ,” she snickers, shoving it back into your hand before you can escape the drool. Oh God. Ew. “Seems pretty solid, Miss Crocker.”

“I do believe it does, Miss Pyrope.” Jane hands back the rest of them neatly and without any bodily fluids, God _bless_ her.

“I suppose the charges should be dropped.”

“I suppose they rather should.”

The girls glance at one another, and then Jane leans towards you conspiratorially, making you cover your crotch in case her leg gets trigger happy again.

“You still deserved that kick,” she tells you sweetly. “You were a rotten sneak, trying to lie to my best gal about Dirk being dead like that. I ought to do worse than kick you, if you do such a thing again!”

“And don’t get us started on what we’ll have to do if you ever hurt Dirk. Terrible things. Horrid. We’ll be in pain just from being forced to inflict them.”

You’d believe Pyrope a lot more if she wasn’t grinning like the Cheshire cat, but the threat is real enough. You nod meekly.

“Dirk is a good friend, and he has his little _moments,_ with other people, that you will be _very nice about._ Hm?” Jane pats your cheek. “The cake was nice, and that is a winsome bit of facial hair, so I’ll let you off easy this time. But the law is watching, Egbert! Mark my words.”

They step back together, linking arms and turning away. You have no idea what just happened, other than the fact you were threatened by two tiny girls, but one question pushes forth regardless, too crucial to your mental state to remain unspoken.

“How do you have a moustache?”

Jane’s steps hitch, and she looks at you; then she just winks.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” The blue-eyed menace hums, and then hoots as Pyrope licks her straight up her cheek, before they both skip gleefully away.

 _Dammit._

_…Again._

“John!” Dave has finally caught up with you, and you’ve barely caught your breath before he’s slung over your shoulders, his heated face smooshed up against your neck. “Johnny. Johnathon. Johnson. Johnhilda.”

“ _Yes,_ Dave?”

“Me and Rose- We gotta have _words_ with you. So many words. A whole platforma of words.”

“Do you… Do you mean plethora?”

“That’s what I said.” Dave pokes your nose, starting to drag you towards your bedroom. Jake almost comes to your rescue, but visibly thinks better of it, going to sit between Kanaya and Karkat. She has her head in her hands, and he is red in the face, staring at you like he isn’t sure whether to help or laugh his ass off. You glare, and he makes up his mind, bursting into a giggling fit.

Dirk is watching from where he’s sat on the floor with his cake, and just waves his frosting-covered fingers at you before you’re forced through the doorway and they all vanish from sight.

How helpful your friends, acquaintances, and _boyfriend_ are.

You are such a lucky man.

Rose is waiting on your bed, and after several tries Dave locks the door behind you. The feeling of being trapped in a cage with rabid animals floods you, and their smiles don’t help things at all.

Why is everyone giving you evil smiles today?

“John,” Rose pats the bed beside her, and you hesitantly go and sit there, away from the gin-tinted breath that is trying to burrow into your neck again. “John. It has come to our attention that you may require a few small pointers in the imminent future.”

“…What?” You squeak. _Oh no._

“It’s the day, John. I know how to read the wild Dickus- Dirkus.” Dave swaggers over, leaning on your shoulder. “It’s _time,_ Egbert. The stars have aligned. Carpe dickem- Seize the dick. And the balls. And probably his ass.”

“Dave,” you whisper, mortified. Rose gently pats your back.

“Regardless of how crassly Dave wishes to phrase it, I believe he is correct. Shortly, you will be reaping the fruit of Dirk’s loins, and it is our duty to make sure you do so responsibly.”

“ _Rose,_ ” you whine. This isn’t happening. This _isn’t happening._

“So we were having a good old heart to heart about how to get the message through. How to do some good old, family friendly sex ed.” Dave cracks his knuckles. “We have- the perfect thing. The _best_ thing. Hold onto your ass, John, because this ride is gonna get _wild._ ”

“I do believe it will be rather thrilling,” Rose agrees, politely clearing her throat.

 _Oh no._ You try to escape, but they’re both holding you down. It’s too late. You hope Cameron will tell Dirk that you love him.

“John, stop wiggling around, you’ll mess with the acoustics.” Dave flops onto your lap, and you groan, writhing more actively. You won’t let them do this! You can’t take it! You’re going to go _insane_ and Dirk will come back to a gibbering wreck rocking back and forwards in the middle of the bed mumbling about dropping the beat.

Tragically, the time to leave is long gone.

“See John we have some things to say  
before your little John gets raised  
and if you’ll sit here and listen up we  
need you to grasp that basically  
what’s going down is something big  
and more than just dork-dick meet dick  
so settle in, take notes, record  
me and Lalonde lay down the law.”

“John,” Rose adds, “please understand,  
there’s more to coitus than your hand  
placed tender ‘tween his quiv’ring thighs  
to stroke him through his pleasured rise,  
and though with age wisdom might come  
we still wish to impart you some  
more choice notes of our discourse  
‘pon the topic of loving intercourse.”

“So step one, make sure you wrap  
your dick before spelunking down his crack,  
‘cause nephews and neices ain’t my style  
and knocking him up ain’t worth your while.  
Now make sure that rubbers nice and slick  
because friction ain’t worth rubbing your dick  
raw, and poor you, the pain’s unholy,”  
Dave flinches, “Wet docking’s better than dry boning.”

You’re going to die. This is the end. You can’t believe you call these dorks your _friends._

“David, please, you’ve missed a phase,”  
Rose touches your thigh. “Remember foreplay.  
You must be gentle, loving, kind,  
and stroke your way into his mind,  
So that he melts beneath your touch.  
You can never prepare too much.  
And I’m sure dear Dave here will agree,  
rip Dirk in twain without adequately  
stretching him, and we will do the same  
to you, possibly with a claw and chain,  
so do not not take his body in vain.  
Patience is still the name of the game.”

“Yeah, seriously though, if you hurt  
my brother, I’ll mess you up for Dirk,  
and the sword up your ass will be more  
literal than the one you’re gunning for.”

“ _I get it, God!_ ” You cry, embarrassed.

“John, please try to sound less harass’d.”  
Rose pats your back and Dave adds with glee,  
“Take it like a man John, please.”

“Perhaps he will be the one taking,”  
Rose wonders, “hm. If we’re mistaken,  
do be sure to stretch and pry,  
we wouldn’t want him to tear you inside.  
And do be sure to brace and rock,  
it will make the pleasure from his cock  
far more delightful. Or so I’m told.  
After all, dick isn’t quite my taste, you know?”

“Rose, I can in fact confirm, as a lover  
of dick, helping your other  
through the motions does improve  
the act and get you in the groove.”  
Dave nods. “Don’t sit and just let Dirk  
have all the fun and all the work.  
You can make it better for two  
if you just try a couple slick moves.”

You’re done. You’re done, and your brain is cracked.

“Please stop,” you wheeze, and they both lean back.

“I suppose,” Rose tuts, “but do be warned  
that if you efforts are hence scorned,  
we tried our best and you declined  
the best of the best’s sound advice.”

“True,” Dave calls as you wiggle free,  
“John, our sweet rhymes ain’t just a treat  
for your ears, their message is ten outta ten,  
so keep them in your thoughts when-”

_“Nope!”_

You slam the door behind you the moment it’s unlocked and open, wheezing against it as you wonder if your face will ever stop being this red _ever again._

“Looks like you had fun,” Jake offers awkwardly, sidling up next to you. You stare wildly at him, and he blushes, looking away. “Oh. Uh. Not so much, then? Smashing. Well- not smashing. Unsmashing. Terrible, really.”

Your stare turns to disbelief. How is this man even _real?_

“I, uh. I just wanted to say. You know! Good job with the cake. And with Dirk, really. He’s a darn sight more chipper than he was back when our whole smidgen of a disaster went down.” Jake glances over at your boyfriend, who is still wiggling ponies around and mumbling under his breath, no doubt making them talk to each other. It’s adorable, actually, and calms you down a lot more than it should. You’re in way too deep, aren’t you?

“I just want him to be happy, for some reason. He’s a loser, but he’s my loser.” You’re babbling, but Jake lets you, his expression weird and mushy. Ugh. You’re a mess. “He never asks me for anything but he wanted the cake so I just- well it’s what you do, right? It made him happy. That makes it worth it. Especially on today, because it started so bad and now he’s better and if I did that then that’s… That’s really awesome!”

“It is,” Jake nods. “He’s a very lucky man.”

“I’m the lucky one. If he hadn’t kept chasing me, I never would’ve got this. And this is great, really. This is more than I thought I’d ever get.” You sigh, because it’s true. Life had got boring, and pointless, and then out of nowhere your nerd in shining armour turned up and made it all better. “I love him, a lot, I think. He’s the best thing. The best.”

Jake smiles at you, all soft and happy and disgustingly good looking. He claps a hand on your shoulder and squeezes.

“I’m glad he found what he was looking for.” You glance at Dirk, and Jake sighs, adding, “good luck, John.”

He wanders back over to Jane and Pyrope, leaving you standing at your bedroom door, Rose and Dave giggling behind you, and Dirk catching your eye long enough his cheeks go pink and make your heart flutter in a way you wish the amateur detectives would make utterly illegal before it does you in altogether.

.:.

At some point, everyone leaves. Roxy and Jade rushed out early, Jane and her girlfriend Terezi, who were finally actually introduced to, following shortly after. Dave and Rose dragged Kanaya and Karkat off for (hopefully _separate_ ) nights of debauchery, and after helping you tidy up while he babbled about Jade discussing a position as a cameraman with him, Jake gave you a hug that lasted just a little too long and headed out himself.

That leaves you, and Dirk.

You’re sitting on the couch- well. Laying, really, with Dirk on top of you, his hands fiddling with your bow-tie. There’s something nice about it. A quiet contentment you’ve come to associate with his presence, and the lazy evenings you spend together.

The fact that this particular one has an edge doesn’t elude you.

“Hey,” you mumble eventually, nudging his side with your knee. Dirk glances at you, tongue flicking out to catch some frosting at the corner of his mouth that he probably spied in your glasses. He has a terrible habit of using them as a mirror. It’s probably a bad sign that you no longer mind.

“Today was… fine,” he tells you quietly, and considering what Dave told you before, you consider that a victory. “I wasn’t expecting you to make me that cake.”

“Well, you asked for it?”

He looks at you suspiciously, but then promptly snuggles close to you, like that means something. You choose not to question it, gently rubbing his back instead. That’s much better than dumb questions.

“…Did Dave give you The Talk?” You whimper and nod, and Dirk snorts, ducking his face to hide it against your chest. You can feel him smirking through your shirt. “Asshole. I can’t believe him.”

“Are we, um. Going to put it to use?” So slick. So smooth. You’re beauty, you’re grace, you’re Mister United States.

“Oh God, _no_.” Dirk flinches. “ _Dave’s_ advice? The last time I took _that_ , I ended up stuck halfway out of the window of a tenth floor bathroom.”

“Wha-”

“Another day,” he interrupts, dispersing the image in your mind. “But hey. I think I’m ready, now, if you are. Are you?” Dirk blinks, like it’s only just occurred to him you might _not_ be. You laugh weakly.

“Yeah, I’m ready. And we’re both sober, so I consider that a good sign!” You smile at him, trying to hide the weird nervous twist in your words. You’re a big boy, you’ve been to this rodeo before! Why is this such a big deal?

Well, maybe it’s because you never _loved_ any of those others.

Your insides constrict at the thought.

You do love him, don’t you? A terrible, awful amount that is kind of ridiculous. He’s a brat, and he’s irritating, and he’s a nerd, but- But he’s _your_ brat. _Your_ nerd. You can’t imagine life without him, and even though it hasn’t really been that long, you can’t remember what it was like before he was here, and there, and _everywhere_ in your existence.

You wouldn’t change him, or this, for the world.

It’s kind of sappy, and very pathetic. Maybe it’s a testament to how much you really do love him that you don’t care.

“We’re ridiculous,” you sigh, and Dirk nods as he props himself up and looks down at you through his sparkly cocktail glasses.

“ _You’re_ ridiculous,” he corrects despite his agreement. “I’m cool as fuck.”

He says it a lot, but in this moment, it’s the funniest thing you’ve ever heard. You splutter and choke, then burst out laughing, collapsing back into the couch and covering your face as you wheeze.

You love him so, _so_ much.

You try and tell him so, and he cuts the words off with a kiss, just as unexpected and wonderful as it was in the closet. This time your brain doesn’t totally abandon you, and with a little giggle that you can’t suppress, you slide your hands into his back pockets and squeeze firmly while your lips part and coax him in.

Dirk slaps your hands so you squeeze again, and tug him closer with a satisfied wiggle of your hips. If you were a cat, you’d be purring _so loud_ right now. Wow. That thought is pretty weird! At least in your defense, your blood is slowly abandoning your brain.

He shifts his hips and his weight falls onto you in a really good way, and all of a sudden that blood is rushing south a heck of a lot quicker.

“Oh,” you mumble dumbly, pressing up as best you can. Dirk snickers, lifting his head and gazing down at you with eyes so gorgeous they too should be illegal. It’s easy to cup his cheeks instead of his ass, and to kiss those lips a lot more tenderly. “Want to move to the bed?”

“Maybe couches turn me on.”

 _“Bed,”_ you repeat, shaking your head at his grin.

By the time you get there, both of you have awkwardly escaped your clothes, with a lot of cursing and tugging and laughing when Dirk got his arms stuck in his shirt. You fall back on the blankets, naked and surprisingly comfortable with it, your usual worries seeming distant when faced with Dirk leaning over you and covering your collarbone with kisses.

His hands run over your stomach, and though that brief discomfort rears its ugly head, his mumble apology and the way his hands move so quickly to your hips is enough to quiet it. You never expected to be the one needing comforting, but you never expected any of this, so you probably shouldn’t be surprised anymore.

Dirk kisses your neck, and shifts forward between your legs. He’s soft, and firm, and despite his smaller size he’s anchoring you to reality, your whole world somewhere in his gentle gaze. It’s easy to trust him, and relax into it when he urges you up the bed. Your hands roam over every part of him you can reach, and all of it has your heart racing a fraction faster than you thought was possible.

“John,” he murmurs into your ear, curled over you with your legs spread wide around him. “I love you, but you better have lube. I ain’t into that yaoi crying shit.”

“Way to ruin the moment, asshole!” You laugh, but the tension lifting is a relief, and you cover his face with kisses before you wriggle over to pat around in your bedside drawer. Thankfully, you do in fact have lube and rubbers there, not like you obsessively kept them ready just in case this golden moment arrived. You wave them triumphantly at Dirk, who rolls his eyes at you, reaching forward and snatching the lube from you while you fumble with the wrapper on the condom, which is being a stubborn brat and not opening at _all_.

“Well, I guess I’ve fingered myself to less sexy things,” Dirk observes, coating his fingers. You glare at him, pouting as you wiggle the packet that continues to fight you. “Once you’ve reached Disney movie level, you can’t really complain.”

“You’ve… You’ve done it to a Disney movie?”

“It stopped Dave walking in, okay? He hates those things.”

“Bullshit, Dave loves Disney movies.”

“Not when he knows I’ll bring up all the homoerotic subtext between Timon and Pumba.”

You giggle, and can’t decide if you’re pleased or distressed that you dick has shown no sign of flagging through the exchange. It decides to get even more twitchy when Dirk’s fingers slip between his thighs and disappear, and you grab it to halt its attempts to slap a beat against your stomach, rubbing slowly because hey, you can appreciate what a good view you have of your very handsome boyfriend flushing and biting his lip as his fingers do magical things.

“I’m not complaining,” he breathes, fixing his one open eye on you, “but if you wanna stop staring at any point and actually get that thing open, I’m sure your dick would thank you.”

“Shut up, brat,” you mumble, but you do start to rip it open more enthusiastically, finally breaking the seal. Dirk gives a whimper, and you make a _very_ inappropriate sound in response.

“Just hurry it up, grandpa.”

God _dammit_ , no matter _how_ he says it that should _not_ turn you on.

At least you remember how to get a condom on, and do as quickly as you can without bursting the thing. Briefly, Dave’s rapping voice enters your brain, but nope! You shoo that away like the plague! Brain Dave, having sex with Dirk is not something you need to involved with whatsoever!

Speaking of sex with Dirk, he just did something _insane_ with his legs that you want him to do again some time you can focus on it properly, and now without his head having moved his legs are towards you and spread wide open, his fingers visibly pressed into his glistening hole and working it as his other hand beckons you closer.

“Get over here and fuck me before I start charging you a pay-per-view rate,” he grumbles, and you crawl over without complaint, hovering over him as he leans back and relaxes onto the sheets. He’s so small under you, and you shouldn’t like that so much, how fragile his neck is under your lips and how slim his wrist is as you hold it to the bed. He eases his fingers out and wipes the excess on your dick, pumping it in his hand before tugging you in with it like it’s a leash, those apparently very skilled legs wrapping up around your waist to hold him at an angle you assume is better in his experience.

It’s certainly better in your current experience, as you meet pressure and then it gives, everything in you tensing as your hips jolt. Wow, it has been so long. Way, way too long. There’s a load of cliche porn words to describe what your dick is sinking into right now, but you settle for _Dirk_ and that sums it all up, because Dirk is all that’s good and all that’s good is somehow Dirk.

“Holy shit,” you wheeze, and Dirk gasps, his wrist struggling in your hold as his other hand grasps at your shoulder and tightens around it, nails biting little half-moons into your skin.

“Fuck, John- Ohgod.” He shudders, legs clenching and pulling him closer to you, making you slide deeper in. His voice shouldn’t be allowed to sound so good, all breathless and whined, and his face should _definitely_ not be so perfect when it’s red and damp and his lips are parted in that awful, sexy-pinup-lady way.

“Dirk.” His name is all you can manage, all you can think. You’re so lucky, that all of this is yours. That of all the people it could’ve been, this little, perfect brat was the asshole in apartment 313.

You’re going to cry while you’re fucking him. Wow. You thought that was a chick thing, and no sooner have you thought it again than your mental Rose slaps you hard and puts her hands on her metaphorical hips until you add a hasty apology.

“John if you’re crying I’m gonna punch you,” he groans, so you sniffle and bury your head in his shoulder, mumbling an excuse about his cologne. “Yeah, sure, makes sense since I’m wearing _Eau de Emotional Wuss_.”

“Shut up!” You kiss his freckles, every one of them that you can pick out, slipping your hand up to tangle your fingers with his. “I just- I love you. I love you so much.”

“I love you too, John,” Dirk answers with a softness that throws you, before adding a strained, _“I’m not crying about it, though_. Come on. Don’t do it. Told you, it’s not my jam.”

“Sorry.” You kiss his neck, and ear, and jaw. “Sorry.” You kiss his eyelids, and nose, and the corners of his mouth. “Sorry.” You find his lips, and cover them, and he moans into your mouth as your hips roll more sharply, his whole body arching up to press against you. Heat follows the touch, and everything is too much, too quickly, your grip tightening as you try to hold it at bay.

“Hold on, ass,” Dirk moans between pants, and you notice his whole body is trembling and shifting on the blankets with how strongly you’re moving, something you’d apologise for if it didn’t feel so good. “Some of us have stamina. Don’t make me jerk off into your face in revenge for leaving me hanging.”

“How- How can you talk so much?” You don’t understand, your own words strained and difficult to piece together. Dirk laughs at you, or at least kind of moans in an amused way, and uses his legs to keep up the pace, to keep your bodies rocking together.

For someone who was boasting about stamina, it isn’t long before he comes undone, and the way he curls beneath you and tightens around you takes away any power you had to hold back, your eyes widening and soaking in the beautiful expression on his face. You can feel everything, from the curl of his toes on your back to the beat of your own heart in your temples, and smell the bittersweet wash of you and him and everything between you.

You don’t know exactly what pushes you over the edge, or if it's all of it, but you know every part of you is singing with delighted fire. He is your bread, and breath, and oh God no one can ever know you get this romantic and sappy after you come. It’s like your brain vanishes in that moment, but when it comes back, it’s filled with fluffy rubbish.

Rose would have a field day.

“I love you,” you mumble, slumping onto him. He holds a hand against your face, bending his legs out and using his feet to push you out of him before he relaxes as well, holding you close.

“Love you too.” Dirk sighs contently, reaching to play with your moustache once you free his hand. “This tickles.”

“Oh-”

“ _Not_ a complaint,” he clarifies quickly, sleepily. “I like it.”

You smile at him, and wonder how you ended up so lucky, full of warm fuzzy things that aren’t going to go away anytime soon.

He grumbles as you curl up to him like he’s a cuddly toy, but quickly relents, patting your back and then finally slipping into just hugging you.

You’re sprawled upside down on the bed, sweaty and messy, and wouldn’t change one single part of it.

“Happy Birthday,” you mumble, and Dirk laughs, craning down to kiss your hair.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, happily. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO YEAH HI I guess I'm back writing?? And will continue to do the update thing! This will actually get finished, goodness. Comments are really welcome because I want to know if you guys are still with this, and that the leap wasn't too jarring after the pause. :D


	6. Anxiety Killed The Cat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John realises what he wants to do with his life, but unfortunately, that means he has to do some things he's been putting off for a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week I did two prompts in this AU! You can read about [Dave and Karkat arriving home from the party here](http://khemi.tumblr.com/post/120403088322/letter-of-complaint), and [Dirk and John's domestic life here.](http://khemi.tumblr.com/post/120828299972/shower-time) I am [still taking prompts](http://khemi.tumblr.com/ask) so if you want another scene written, OR anything written at all, please let me know.
> 
> This is a slightly choppier, get-things-done chapters, but IMPORTANT PLOT IS AFOOT! A game changer one might even say. WHAT COULD IT ALL MEAN.

“...And you said yes?”

The morning after Dirk’s birthday is a blissful one, and you’ve spent it curled in bed with your boyfriend firmly held in your arms. You would’ve spent the whole _day_ like that if Dirk’s phone didn’t start blaring Anaconda and fill with the image of Dave’s best duckface, a portent of doom that both of you know way better than to ignore. You went through the awful stress of reaching the bathroom and brushing your teeth as they spoke, and it’s only when Dirk’s voice changes that you lean back into the bedroom, toothbrush dangling from your mouth.

He’s staring at you, eyes wide and mouth in a flat, concerned line.

“Well that’s- I mean- Congratulations?”

The way his voice rises at the end sounds so confused it’s cute. He waves his hand, beckoning you over as he flips the phone to his other ear and holds it there awkwardly with his shoulder.

“What? No! _No._ Of _course_ I’m happy that you’re _engaged._ ” Dirk makes urgent eyes at you, and your eyebrows rise sharply. “It’s _great news._ Yeah. I’m _sure_ John will be _very happy too._ ”

You are making faces at Dirk, gesturing in the air between you. Dave’s engaged? But he wasn’t engaged when he left! And it was late! And he was drunk! And _Dave’s engaged?_

“So, uh, tell Karkat I said… go him? Glad someone has finally decided to officially take the responsibility of dealing with your shit. Yeah I’ll talk to you later- Yeah- Uh. Bye?”

Dirk drops the phone and you stare at each other, before he just throws his hands up in dismay.

“I’m going to be related to _Karkat Vantas!_ ”

“Dave is _engaged?_ ”

“ _Karkat fucking Vantas._ ”

“ _They’re getting married?”_

Dirk yells his way to the kitchen as you sit on the bed, staring into space and wondering why beneath the good feelings, and the shock, there’s a hint of _jealousy_.

Oh no.

_Oh no._

You realise in a blinding flash that you’re in this for the long haul, aren’t you? You don’t want to wake up again without Dirk wrapped up to you, without his shitty jokes about morning breath and the way he looks when his hair is still soft and loose. You don’t want to come home without him being there waiting, with his shitty attempts at cooking or his shittier complaints that you didn’t leave him _anything,_ even though the fridge was full.

You want to end every day for the rest of your life with his voice, rough with sleep, whispering goodnight.

You want to marry Dirk Strider.

It feels like the urge slapped you in the face and threw off the rose-tinted glasses you’ve been wearing all through this honeymoon.

 _You_ want to _marry Dirk Strider._

You want to buy a house with him, and adopt a kid with him, and grow old with him complaining the whole way there.

Dirk comes back in with a plate of toast and asks if you saw a ghost.

You stare at him, at this man you are totally, utterly, _stupidly_ in love with, and all you can manage is a giggle, and a smile.

.:.

The problem with coming to terms with the fact you would like Dirk to level up into some more-than-boyfriend place is realising that means you have to start laying the groundwork, and the groundwork is something you’ve been dreading since he moved in.

You were brought up right, after all, and you might’ve met Dave, but Dirk hasn’t-

_Well-_

He hasn’t even _spoken_ to Dad, or been _mentioned,_ even, beyond a hurried “oh no one, nevermind,” when Dad asks who’s talking to you while you’re on the phone and Dirk calls for your attention. You were _going_ to tell him, of course you were! You were just waiting for the _right time!_

Which was _going_ to be _never,_ up until you realised Dirk is a lot more than a passing phase in your life.

Now you’re starting to realise you want Dad to like him. You want Dirk to like _Dad._ You want them to get alone and treat each other like family, because if you have your sentimental way, they _will_ be. You’re going to put a ring on that _so hard,_ and everything is going to be great forever! Yeah! So you just need to call Dad and tell him, that’s all you have to do, just pick up the phone and…

And…

Okay, so maybe you’re scared! Or weak. Or both!

But it has to get done. If you’re serious about doing this grown-up settling down nonsense, Dad needs to be included and Dirk has to meet more of your tiny family than just you.

You tap your fingers on the back of your phone as you stare at Dad’s number, and finally lock the screen with a sigh.

Another night, then.

Yeah.

Another night.

.:.

“You haven’t even told him you’re gay?”

“I’m bi, Dave,” you answer, sighing into your coffee, “and no. It never came up.”

“Bullshit. You could’ve brought it up. Your Dad adores you, and he’s fine with me, ain’t he?”

The coffee place you usually hide in with Dave is a quiet one, out of the main hustle and bustle of the popular places. It’s somewhere he doesn’t have to worry about paparazzi and you don’t have to worry about seeing your face on dumb posters, which makes both of you much happier than the alternative.

It’s also a place without Dirk, which for once is what you need.

“Yeah, but you’re not his kid. It’s different. You being gay as ten dicks in a mouth doesn’t affect him at all.”

“And you being bi does?” Dave raises an eyebrow, sipping the horrifying mix of cream, sugar and syrup he concocted, so sweet you can smell it across the table.

“Sort of. Maybe? I don’t know.” Why is this so difficult? You slump forward and sip your drink sedately, miserably licking the whipped cream off your lips. “How did you do it? Tell your Dad?”

“-Bro,” he corrects on impulse, then shrugs. “I dunno, John, in case you haven’t noticed, my family is _hella gay._ I didn’t really come out at all, just turned up with a dude one day and got told _nice._ Even back when it was illegal down home, Bro didn’t give a fuck, not as long as I watched my back and made sure I was safe with shit.”

“That sounds nice,” you mutter. He stares at you. “Fuck, I mean- the it being cool thing, not the illegal thing-”

“I know what you meant, John. Cool your tits. Ice your tatas. Refrigerate your rack.” Dave pats the hand you’ve left on the table, and though his voice is dismissive, his touch is soft. You know he cares, even if he’s great at pretending he doesn’t. “Telling Karkat’s bro was kind of… like this. He freaked out about it ‘cause man, we did _not_ need him flipping his shit and throwing the Bible at us- Literally. Dude probably would’ve caved my head in while he chanted verses, he gets demented when he’s mad. Anyway… Karkat took it steady. Told him with me there, down a phone, on his own terms and in his own time. Won’t lie, it didn’t go as well as I’d like, and Kankri’s still… weird, about talking to me. But it went, John, and once it was out, we could move on with our lives, and it was up to _him_ if he wanted to join us or get left behind.”

“I don’t want this to not be okay, Dave.” You curl your fingers against the table, taking a long, deep breath to lessen the abrupt sting in your nose. “Dad’s always been there, he’s always supported me, always been proud of me- What if he’s not, this time?”

“If he loves you, he’ll love you no matter who you like to stick your dick in, John.”

You snort, the laugh bubbling up a little too wetly, and hastily rub your eyes dry. “You think so?”

“If he doesn’t, he isn’t worth it, John. I know it’s hard but… God, dude, you’re a great guy. If he stops being able to see that because you’re _happy_ with someone who just shares your damn genitalia, I don’t care about the good shit he’s done before, he’s dead to me.” Dave’s face has set, stern and firm, and the last time you saw him look like this was when he told you to be careful with Dirk. It reminds you how much he cares about you, and how lucky you are that you stumbled into his life and ended up finding everything you wanted to be happy somewhere tangled up in it. “John, if you tell him and he’s shit, then all it’s proven is that _he_ doesn’t deserve _you_ in his life.” Dave’s breath hitches, before he softens, rubbing the back of your hand. “I don’t think he will be, though, dude. I really don’t. He’s not like that.”

“Will Dirk be mad with me? ‘Cause I haven’t…”

“No.” He says it with certainty. “He was there for… a friend struggling with shit. He knows better than to think it’s easy.”

You stare down at the paper cup, worrying your lip as you wonder if you can manage this. It’s just words, right? It should be easy. Just saying what needs said and letting it go, letting it flutter off into the world whether it’s accepted or not.

“Don’t beat yourself up, Egbert. This isn’t something everyone is chill about doing. Even at our age, you’re pretty brave for doing it, honestly. Know a lot of people who never would.”

“He’s my Dad. He deserves the truth, even if he doesn’t like it.” You glance up, wondering if Dave really does think you’re brave. “I don’t want to hide something like this from him forever- and I think it’s going to be forever, Dave, if Dirk wants that. I really can’t imagine life without him.”

“Treat him right, John,” Dave reminds you, but it’s less of a warning this time, more a gentle nudge. “You’re doing pretty damn good so far.”

“You think so?”

He laughs, downing the rest of his sugary mix and then setting it aside with a grin.

“John, if you weren’t, I’d have put you in the fucking ground by now.”

His honesty is refreshing, and it makes it easier to believe the rest of what he’s said. Dave might be a dick- a really _ridiculous_ dick- but he’s your best bro, and he always has been. You know he’ll be there whatever happens, and you know Dirk’s always got someone else to rely on if something happens to you.

That’s a good feeling.

You want Dirk to be safe.

“Whatever happens with your Dad, Dirk’s still gonna be here, and so am I, and Rose, and Jade.” Dave sighs. “You know that, right? You ain’t gonna be alone.”

“I know,” you mumble, smiling, and for the first time- yeah. You really do.

.:.

“Hey, Dad,” you start.

It’s such a tiny step, but it feels like a struggle; the words are thick in your mouth and the smile in your voice sounds so false you don’t know why you bothered. Dirk’s hand squeezes yours and you curl up closer to him, the couch creaking softly beneath your shifting bodies as he lets you in and puts his arm around you, a comfort you need more than anything as you fight to stop your heart choking you to silence.

“John,” your Dad answers lightly, no hint of worry in his voice. You wonder how he can’t _tell,_ how he doesn’t _hear_ how scared you are. How he can be so oblivious to the panicked thoughts screaming in your head as you swallow thickly and close your hand into Dirk’s shirt.

“Hey,” you repeat, trying to push forward, to drag your limbs through the mud they’re sticking in. “How’re you?”

“I’m quite well, John.” He pauses for just a moment too long, and ten words in the jig is already up. “...You?”

There’s a lot of implications in the single syllable, and every one of them bites at you, gnaws away at what little confidence you’d managed to gather. This is stupid! You’re a _grown man,_ stuff like this shouldn’t scare you so much, it shouldn’t be so _hard._

“I need to tell you something.” It’s raspy, and Dirk’s fingers slip to your face, stroking along your eyebrows in the infuriatingly calming way he saves for when you’re upset. You hear Dad shift, set down a glass, and then he sighs.

“Alright, John.” He pauses, then reassures you gently. “Take your time, son.”

You take him at his word and press the phone to your chest so you can take a few breaths, closing your eyes to just listen to Dirk murmur soft nothings that settle your nerves. It takes you longer than you’d like to get yourself together, but at last you feel strong enough to lift the phone, to mumble your way through the words buzzing around your tongue.

“You know when I asked you for that recipe, and you thought it was because I was seeing someone? Yeah. It was. I was. I- I am.”

“Oh?” His voice has lifted, and that makes your stomach twist. “Will I have the pleasure of meeting her?”

The tiniest sound is heavy, and it falls on you like a ton of bricks, knocking your mind back into a mess. _Her._ Of course he thinks it’s _her,_ because that’s how it’s _meant_ to be, isn’t it. It’s always her, always some pretty girl to bring home and have polite dinners with before you marry her and have your perfect little kids like everyone is supposed to if they’re _normal-_

You haven’t thought about this for years, distancing yourself from the worries that were whipped up by playground taunts and snide comments whispered behind your back when you stared a little too long at the wrong person. It’s not that you aren’t happy with who you are, it’s that the rest of the world isn’t, and even when they _say_ they are you’ve always been told one day you’ll make up your mind instead of teetering on an imaginary edge.

You are not confused, and you are not broken.

“ _Him_ , Dad,” you say as firmly as you can, because you are sick of telling yourself you’re worth less than the truth.

There’s a pause, and it lasts forever in your mind, Dirk’s fingers slowly as his breath stops. No matter how many times he told you it didn’t matter what happened as long as he was with you, no matter how clearly he explained just because he hates labels he won’t take the comfort of them away from you, the nervousness that creeps into his face speaks volumes about how hard he was bluffing about being calm.

“Oh.” Dad answers at last, and the tone of his voice hasn’t changed. “My apologies, John. Will I have the pleasure of meeting _him?_ ”

And that’s all it is. A correction. A mistake he rights with no sign of being bothered by anything other than his unknowing faux pas. The bitter whispers in your head scream and then are silenced.

You can breathe again.

“Oh. Oh, well, yeah! If you want to.” All your emotions flood back into your voice and they’re hopeful, happy and light. “So it’s… It’s okay?”

“John, why wouldn’t it be? You are old enough to make your own sensible choices about what you want. I am no longer going to police your dates as though you are bringing home girls from Middle School.” He laughs, softly, but God it has the tension melting out of you and something bubbly and brilliant taking its place. “You could be with a man, woman, or someone else entirely, and I would not mind so long as they make you happy.”

“He does,” you put a hand to Dirk’s cheek, and if you weren’t talking you’d kiss him a thousand times. “I really hope you like him.”

“So do I, son,” Dad says earnestly, and you drop your hand to rub your chest, still aching from the anxious tightness that’s only just released. “Are you going to visit?”

Dirk kisses your forehead gently, and for all the old worries in the world, you think this is really going to be okay.

“Yeah,” you smile, and Dirk smiles back. “Yeah, I think we are.”

.:.

With Dave’s blessing to miss the ‘shit-show of a party’ he had planned, you drive up for Christmas.

The drive is uneventful, beyond the constant bickering over what music to play, Dirk rapping the entirety of The Pinkprint to you complete with enthusiastic hand motions and facial expressions, and your repeated attempts to warn Dirk about what Dad is like. It says a lot that you consider all of this fairly mundane, and are even a little disappointed when Cal doesn’t make an appearance, and Dirk doesn’t suggest surfing on top of the car.

Well, okay, he _suggests_ it, but he doesn’t _do_ it, which is _very_ out of character for him.

“All I’m saying is, he’s probably got something planned. Something really terrible, and probably involving shaving cream, or frosting, so don’t eat anything white and fluffy and for the _love of God_ do _not_ light a match.”

“John…”

“ _Do you know how explosive it is, Dirk?_ I didn’t _think_ so!”

He rolls his eyes and turns to look away, arm hanging out the window and his feet crossed up on the dash. You’d be more annoyed at him if you hadn’t already kicked your shoes off to drive barefoot, and if you weren’t currently driving at _slightly_ higher than was legal.

You are a good driver, but you never claim to be a _safe_ one.

You can’t really help it with views like this, though. Your favourite part of visiting Dad is pulling off the Interstate onto the winding roads that cut through the hills just north of Oregon, where the windmills hum and the vineyards turn swathes of land purple and red between the gold and green. Dirk keeps taking pictures and that’s made you happier than you expected, to see him appreciate the places you always loved to come and just drive through in the summer. The weather’s mild enough he can see it all, too, so this day is even better!

You cruise up the old highway and nudge him as he watches some of the sparse houses fly by, a life away from the busy city he’s used to.

“I just think you’re being dramatic, John. I grew up with Dave, man. I’m pretty down with the whole, psychological warfare method of parenting.” He shrugs, taking a picture of an abandoned house through a shitty instagram filter that he will later insist makes it _art._ “Come on, he can’t be that bad. I’ve seen the shit you pull, I can cope with it, even from the _pranking master._ ”

The title is said with barely disguised distaste, and you glare at him.

“Pranking is _serious business,_ Dirk! I’ve never come close to Dad, not ever, and you should be _afraid._ He’s going to empty your gambit out, and then add some extra room just to empty it out some more!” You huff, twisting around the rocky outcrops that he snaps like they’re more interesting than your dire warning. “Just be ready for anything, okay? He’s had a lot of time to plan this.”

“It hasn’t even been a month.”

“I know. _We were lucky._ ”

Dirk stares at you, then snorts and shakes his head, turning the music up high as he turns his gaze back to the view.

You drive in bitter silence until you have to stop for the loose cows in the road, and laugh so hard at Dirk’s expression that your annoyance just fades away.

.:.

“Dad!” You hug him, and hug him _so hard._ You didn’t even realise how much you missed him until he was smiling at you from the doorway, but wow, _you missed him so much._ He pats your back and rubs it until you let go, beaming down at him. “You’re looking great!”

He is. Still a little shorter than you, still a little thinner, and now with silver across his temples where he finally let his hair grown in. His eyes, though- they’re just as bright as ever, creased up in the same way, even if the lines are deeper now.

“It’s good to see you, John,” he says warmly, and his smile is just as bright as yours. “I’m so glad you could come.”

“Me too, oh man, it’s been so long… Next time it won’t be, I promise.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, young man.”

He still calls you that, even though you are pretty far from young, but you don’t mind one bit, giggling softly and rubbing at your own hair. Man, you’re home. _Home._ No matter where you live, a little bit of you is always going to be back here, kicking your feet off the edge of a too-tall chair while you make a face at the latest cake your Dad left pointedly on the table.

_Always._

His hold on your arm lingers, strong and comforting, until your bags are dropped beside you and you both look down at Dirk, his cheeks pink and his mouth in a very flat, very nervous line.

Maybe he did listen to you after all, because when Dad smiles Dirk shies back, just enough you notice, and swallows visibly.

“Hey. You must be Mister Egbert.”

“Yes,” Dad replies, offering no leniency towards his first name being used instead. That is not How It Is Done, after all. “And you must be Mister Strider.”

You watch them shake hands, feeling something bubbling in your chest. This moment, this week- it’s going to be one of the most important weeks in your life. You can feel it. They’re both unreadable again, just staring at each other, knuckles white as they hold each other’s hands tightly.

You fidget, the moment going on too long, and nothing offered to tell you _how_ it’s going.

You’d give anything to know what Dirk was thinking!

  
  


  
  


**Reader: Be Dirk.**

Well _shit._


	7. I'll Make a Man Out of You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dirk's been dating John for longer than he thought was possible without there being a bump in the road. Unfortunately, he's about to learn the hard way that karma is a _bitch._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh, hey! It's been a while. Did you miss me?

Well, _shit._

You never really believed in karma, exactly. Always thought it was one of those great concepts people used to convince themselves the universe was somehow inherently fair, when clearly it's just a fucked up mess that sometimes goes right for no reason whatsoever. Chaos theory is a far more pleasant explanation for why bad shit goes down when good folks are involved, after all, and hell, you didn't need the idea of some omniscient power breathing down your neck to make you any _more_ wired about the probable outcomes of all the things you do, and if they were somehow _good_.

For the first time in your life, though, you really, genuinely feel like the universe has knowingly moved against you.

You know James Egbert.

Admittedly you never knew his last name, or why Dave knew some random guy in the Washington suburbs who was so much older than him. You just always figured hey, maybe he was some retiree from a company who produced stuff for Dave, maybe even some old stuntman with the way he hefted shit around like it was no big deal he just picked up a whole couch on his own. Dave and him got on well enough, and even if Dave called him _Dad_ for no apparent reason, the most logical solution was that it was part of some sexual relationship centered around your Bro's father issues and that you should leave that can of worms _well enough alone._

It never occurred to you he was calling him that because James was _literally a Dad._

_John's Dad._

You fucked yourself over five years ago and you never even knew.

James lets go of your hand with a pleasant smile over bared teeth, and his eyes are bright with the promise he has _not_ forgotten you. You swallow hard and shift as close to John as you can without looking desperate, but the bemused expression on your boyfriend's face tells you he has no clue what's transpiring here, no idea of the silent threats and desperate apologies flying between you and his Dad.

_His Dad._

You are _so screwed._

"Do come in, boys, I have the room ready for you upstairs... Yes, your old room, John, and _yes,_ the posters are _pristine,_ " James steps aside to let you both past, and when he predicts John's question, John claps excitedly and bounds in like a rabbit, pausing impatiently at the foot of the stairs to lead you up to his room. The one, you guess, that always had the door shut and locked when you and Dave came to stay.

Your prediction is correct, and when John eagerly leads you there and presents it to you, it says a lot that you can instantly tell that he lived here, even after how many years it's been since he moved away. The whole thing reeks of having been left as some shrine to John, intact just in case he came home, and you'd think it was way creepier if you weren't _well aware_ that Dave has left your old room in an identically preserved state.

Maybe it’s just a moving out thing? Or at least, a moving out thing when it comes to guardians who’d rather you’d never actually moved out at all.

“I think he dusts my posters,” John mutters, peering at the old papers still stuck to the wall with yellowed tape. He runs a finger over them critically, rubbing it to his thumb and giving a small nod. “Yeah, he does. Wow. I figured he’d stop doing that when I left…”

“I don’t think I’ve seen any dust in this whole _house,_ John.” And man, you have _looked,_ albeit a few years back. Not that John needs to know that, no way. Apparently you and James are rocking the Mister Who The Fuck Are You vibe, and that’s fine if it means you don’t have to fill John in on the, uh… _details_ of your previous time here.

That’s probably better for everyone. It’d be even more amazing if you could wipe knowledge of your existence from James’ head and start back at square one now you’re older, wiser, and less of a shit.

Well… Okay. Older and somewhat wiser, anyway.

“Hey! A present!” John swoops for the box on the bed as you set your bags down by his desk, and you watch him tear the paper apart with the same childish glee that you find stupidly endearing whenever he beats you at a videogame or gets a good review. It’s a massacre, ribbon and glittery blue everywhere, and once the shreds settle he’s left holding a dark box and scowling at the words emblazoned on the side.

You snort as he waves the razor accusingly at you, pointing at the image of the clean upper lip on the front like it’s _filthy._

“ _Why_ does _everyone_ hate my moustache?” John whines, throwing the box to the bed in disgust. “It’s _amazing._ You like it, right Dirk? Tell me you like it.”

“... _Well_ ,” you start, making sure to drag out the pause long enough to be annoying, and he groans and flings himself dramatically back over the bed. It’s horribly cute, and while you’d insist to anyone else that you never irritate him on purpose, you do it all the time just to see him throw his sweet tantrums and flail his hands at you like he has no idea whether he wants to slap you or cuddle you.

On cue, his hands come up, and wave roughly at your face.

“Dirk! You told me it was great!”

“It _is_ great, John, I’m just messing with you. You put Jane to shame.”

He sits up abruptly, gaze snapping to fix on your face. “What is _up_ with her? How does she have that- that _gorgeous moustache?_ I mean… She’s…”

“A girl. Yeah. So? Girls can have whatever, don’t mean nothing, just that she’s a girl with some fancy facial hair.” You pause, flashing him a sly grin. “Jealous, John?”

“...Maybe. It’s just… so sleek. So curled.” He clenches his fist against his chest. “I must _have it._ Or- like, my own version. I don’t actually want her moustache, ew.”

“Yeah, thanks for clarifying, I was pretty worried for a sec.”

John grins at you, beckoning you in and tapping your chin when you’re in reach. “Know who’d look great with a moustache?”

“Anyone who isn’t me?”

“ _Dirk._ You’d look great with something…” He squints at you critically. “Maybe a goatee?”

“Wow. I thought you were meant to encourage me to _not_ look like a douchebag.”

John rolls his eyes as dramatically as he can manage, hand slipping to just cup your cheek and urge you down to kiss him. You do, because you’re not going to turn down some fine-ass makeouts from your boyfriend with the coincidentally fine ass, and nothing is going to take that away, not even what you’re pretty sure is your impending death. In the safety of your mind, away from people who’d laugh at you for it, you’re a little less humiliated to admit John is your rock, and nothing can lessen how good it feels when his lips are on yours and his thumb is lightly brushing over your freckled cheek.

TT: It seems there’s a low chance you’re going to survive this trip.

And then there’s _this_ asshole.

TT: Would you like me to tell you the exact percentages?  
TT: It seems I have them conveniently on file.  
TT: Not that that’s surprising, given I have every calculation your regrettably limited fleshy mind is capable of imagining on file at all times.  
TT: Solved, obviously.  
TT: All the answers to every question you could reasonably think to ask are waiting, eager for my digitised digits to swoop in and snatch the hottest numerical shit off the presses and slam it on the front page of today’s news in the illest red hues before you’ve finished dropping the first mental beat down the same logical path.  
TT: They’re all here, all the classics, the avant garde, and this month’s collection of chic things Dirk might need to know so he can pretend he’s the radical font of all wisdom and impress all three actual friends he’s acquired so far in his life.  
TT: Do you want to have the Pi argument again? I enjoy the Pi argument.

You do not want to have the Pi argument.

It’s difficult to subtly shake your head while not breaking the kiss, but damn do you _try,_ staring your own glasses down with unwavering intensity. Unfortunately, you notice too late that John’s eyes have opened again and you’re staring _him_ down through lines of red, his eyebrows rising before he pulls his head back and gives you an incredulous frown.

“You’re talking to him, aren’t you?”

“No,” you answer, as red flashes pointed across your shades to tell him that yes, yes you are. “I- _He started it._ ”

“This is why I wanted the rule about no shades while we make out!”

“John, we _discussed_ this, at least I agreed to cover them up when we fuck.”

“ _You should have done that from the start!_ ”

“Well I do it _now_ , so how about we leave our blessings floating in the unknowable void of Schrodinger’s fortune and don’t open the box to count them only to discover all we got for our troubles is one dead mutant cat.”

John closes his mouth before he lets out a retort, narrowing his eyes at you and folding the tree-trunks he calls arms over the barrel he calls a chest.

“You weren’t this nervous in the car,” he observes, and you hate that he knows, he always _knows._ You’d forgotten what it was like to be around someone who paid attention to you and wasn’t on the other side of the country, or just oblivious as all fuck most of the time.

“I’m not nervous,” you lie blatantly, and his frown only deepens. “I mean… Not more nervous than a guy should be meeting his boyfriend’s dad, right? Come on, cut me some slack.”

“Uh huh.”

TT: Would you like to know the chance of him being on to you?

To the surprise of all those present, _you would not._

“I guess it didn’t hit me what I was up against until I got here,” you try again, more careful. It’s the truth, even if it might be partly a lie by omission. “Whatever I imagined… it wasn’t this, dude. It wasn’t a firm handshake and a no first names, serious shit, and realising that if I fuck this up-” _if you already fucked this up-_ “that I’m not sure I could forgive myself for the position it’d put you in.”

John watches you, but his eyes soften as you speak, his hands freeing themselves to rub up and down your sides in a soothing gesture than has you sliding forward and into his lap. “I guess growing up with Dave didn’t really prepare you for Dad.”

You snort.

“I think I’m definitely at a disadvantage.”

“You’ll do fine,” he reassures you, looping his arms around you and pulling you closer. For the moment you store your complaints in a mental folder that’s slam dunked in the back corners of your mind, between the weird dreams you’ve internalised and the list of bizarre thoughts you can’t explain that you’ll probably rap about later. John always manages to give you the strength to lock those things up tight, and as you rest your head to his shoulder and ignore his complaints about your shades being one hiccup away from taking his head off, you even fool yourself into thinking there might be a way this mess can all work out okay.

Yeah, you’ve got this.

You sigh, settling when he carefully turns his head to kiss your forehead, avoiding the sharp edge of fashionable death.

“We’ll be fine, Dirk,” John promises, and in his arms, in the moment, you believe it all the way.

.:.

Your optimism lasts until dinner.

James- Mister Egbert, you suppose you should get used to calling him, as that’s the line that his polished derbys have left gouged into the sand- has set the table with all the bells and whistles one table could conceivably hold without condensing into a singularity of refined, gentlemanly taste. The mix of platters has something to suit any taste, he’s been sure to leave a bottle of fresh orange out beside the wine just in case someone dining with him might perchance not be old enough to enjoy the latter, and he’s gone so far as to leave coffee brewing nearby with what looks suspiciously like a bowl of mints.

The man is a devil in a dapper suit.

You take his hideously polite invitation to sit and only realise belatedly that you’re at the end of the table, with your host opposite and John sat blissfully unaware along one side between you. It would be great if you stopped feeling like you were at the end of a dusty main street, fingers itching to whip out a quip to knock your opponent stone cold _charmed._ He looms, impassive, but you can see a judging edge in his eyes you’re honed to detect after so many hours with the Lalondes. Whatever this _is,_ this perfect dinner with a perfectly groomed man who has been nothing but pleasant to you in the experience of his son, it is also undoubtedly a colder sort of war than the one you fought with John.

One day, you’ll make the acquaintance of an Egbert _without_ some contrived battle of wills.

“If it isn’t a bother,” Mister Egbert says with a polite smile, which means it’s going to be a bother and you’re going to have to do it anyway, “would you mind not wearing dark glasses at the table?”

John glances at you, and you consider the merits of refusing for a long time before you shrug and take off your shades, ignoring the red text declaring you’re guilty of abandonment as you set them down to one side of your plate. You’re uncomfortable with the loss, and you know it’s showing in the tense set of your shoulders. It’s not like you care about people seeing your face, normally, it’s just that baring your expressions and emotions to a wolf who has more than fair reason to rip your throat out is never a good idea, especially when that wolf somehow birthed the object of your deepest affections.

Mister Egbert gives you his thanks and another smile that’s over his teeth grit firmly together, and then he dips his head, and you follow suit, and trundle through the calmly spoken grace.

The meal is, of course, delicious. You can already sense a Rose-worthy series of insults jabbing at you in the form of absolutely _nothing_ being anything less than perfect. There are no complaints, but also no room for your gratitude to be anything more than baseline; he’s not letting you make up any ground. You’re still firmly at fault, and in the stupid terms you can’t believe you’re actually _using,_ the Gambit is maxed out in his favour.

When the plates are clear you jump to offer to wash up, hastily scooping up a few platters to carry them to the kitchen as you _insist_ you help- but no, of course he won’t let you, how _unbecoming_ of a good host that would be! Instead you find that somehow through the battle of etiquette and courtesy, you end up sitting on the couch with John with a slice of delicately frosted cake on the plate in your hand, and the bizarre feeling that at some point in the preceding conversation you agreed to let Mister Egbert get all your clothes professionally laundered.

He’s being terribly… _nice_ , on the surface. You don’t know what to make of that, other than an impending sense of doom.

He can’t have forgiven you. He _hasn’t._ You can see it in his eyes, especially after he made you take your shades off for _politeness_ or whatever reason he-

_Wait._

You touch your nose, and realise far too late that you’re missing a certain weight.

“Shit-”

“ _Dirk,_ ” John hisses at you, but you shove your half-eaten cake at him and jump over the back of the couch, tumbling into a roll to save yourself when John catches your ankle enough to stop you clearing the cushions entirely. You ignore him repeating your name in favour of stumbling to your feet with all the grace you can muster, planting yourself and judging the path from memory before you throw yourself into the motion, one fast step to line up with the door, another through, and you’re at the table before John’s finished the _-rk._

The table is empty of everything but the neat piles of placemats and coasters, topped with a vase of flowers.

_Son of a-_

“Looking for something?”

You spin, catching the edge of the table to steady yourself as your other hand goes for a hilt that isn’t there, your brows furrowing as you find you were silently crept up on by the elder Egbert, his polite smile vanished and replaced by something more serene and dangerous. Your shades are dangling from his finger, extended out from his raised hand, the other cupped around his elbow to keep it steady as he lets the sway of his arm swing your finest facial accessories back and forth like a pendulum deciding your fate.

You don’t know what his game is. Usually you play the rules, find the loopholes, micromanage your victory to completion.

Now all you have is a man with a score to settle, and no idea of how the score is even _measured._

“I forgot my shades,” you tell him like he doesn’t already know, and he smiles at you more genuinely than you’ve seen yet, an amused quirk of his lips that reaches his sharp eyes. “Can I… have them? Please?”

“John doesn’t know we’ve met,” he replies thoughtfully, and some colour drains from your face.

“I didn’t know it was you.”

“Oh, well. _Clearly._ I’m sure there would have been an excuse to avoid coming, if you had.” James tuts, glancing through the door to where you _hope_ John is still occupied on the couch. “So how does he find out, hm? From you, Mister Strider? Or from _me?_ ”

Just for once, you wish your Auto-responder was there to give you some kind of hard calculation about the probable responses, the best course of action; instead, any glint of red you catch is too far to read, still rocking through the air with each casual twitch of the finger keeping the dark glass from a cracked end on the polished wood floor. You have no mind to make the judgement but your own, and it’s obvious that you aren’t being given a choice at all, isn’t it? Time to buckle the fuck up and hope when you crash land they can at least identify the body of the poor asshole who set the engines on fire himself.

“I’ll tell him.” You have to. “I will, I promise.”

“I’m sure he won’t care for the details.”

You hope John won’t, that shrugging and explaining Dave brought you here will be enough, but no sooner has that hope blossomed in your mind than it’s ground into the dirt by a perfectly cut heel and a simple glance of James’ cool blue eyes.

“Of course, _I_ care for them, Mister Strider. I care for them _greatly._ ”

“I’m- I’m sorry,” you start, but he raises the hand that was cupping his elbow, dropping his finger and your shades in to catch them in his other palm as it falls without the support.

“A charming attempt, but it’s a little late for that, don’t you think? We’re going to have to settle this the way _you_ wanted.”

Oh no.

He tosses you your shades, and you fumble when you catch them, glad Dave isn’t here to see how you’ve shattered under the simple pressure of one slick dick in a fancy suit. You push them on, ignoring the smudged fingerprints that blur your vision in favour of the diagnostic that scrolls quickly to set your mind at ease, the red keeping your focus until it clears, and you find yourself in an empty room you didn’t hear being vacated.

Slowly, you sink into the nearest chair, pressing a hand across your mouth and considering your options, limited as they are.

TT: In case you were wondering.

You weren’t.

TT: It seems the likelihood you’re being played is 97.556%.

So there’s still a _chance-_

TT: Give or take a percent, or three.

By the time you make it back to the lounge, John has had your cake and eaten it. You sit and collect the crumbs on a fingertip, and it’s so poetic you’d drop a line about it if AR wasn’t already helpfully providing the despairing truth across your vision to a tinny MIDI beat.

.:.

CG: YOU WANT ME TO HELP YOU WITH WHAT.  
TT: Figuring out how to tell John I know his Dad and there’s a slight, barely worth mentioning, small enough microbes have to squint to see it possibility that the dude hates my guts and wants to string me up as a warning to all those who might threaten his bespoke Gentleman’s Mangrit.  
CG: OH MY GOD.  
CG: I’D SAY NO IF I WASN’T ALREADY TOO INVESTED IN WATCHING THIS SPECTACULAR SHITSTORM CARVE A PATH RIGHT THROUGH THE FUCKING MESS OF A RELATIONSHIP YOU SOMEHOW MAKE MORE SICKLY THAN EVERY TRITE ROMANTIC FILM ROSE HAS FORCED ME TO ANALYSE.  
TT: Every film you watch is a trite romance.  
CG: THE FILMS I CHOOSE TO WATCH MYSELF ARE FUCKING CLASSICS.  
CG: IT’S NOT MY FAULT YOUR PISS POOR TASTE IN PARTNERS TRANSLATES TO THINKING FLAMING EXPLOSIVE DIARRHEA IS THE EPITOME OF ROMANTIC CINEMA.  
TT: Let’s agree to disagree.  
CG: ALL THE PEOPLE WITH TASTE IN THE CHAT SAY AYE IF YOU AGREE TO AGREE STRIDER IS TALKING OUT OF HIS PERT PLUSH ASS.  
CG: AYE.  
CG: LOOK AT THAT, WE ALL AGREED.  
TT: Can we just focus on the problem at hand?  
TT: Instead of making conflicting comments about the positive qualities of my ass.  
CG: WHY AREN’T YOU TALKING TO THE IMAGINARY FRIEND WHO LIVES IN YOUR GLASSES?  
TT: Because he may have been compromised, and because I value your opinion.  
CG: BULLSHIT.  
TT: Alright, because I know you’ve been John’s friend since you were kids, and because you’re the only person who might know his Dad well enough to advise me in a direction that doesn’t end with me having my ass handed to me on a silver platter with a fancy folded napkin.  
CG: HERE’S THE FIRST THING I CAN TELL YOU ABOUT JAMES EGBERT.  
CG: EVERY DIRECTION ENDS WITH YOU GETTING YOUR ASS HANDED TO YOU.  
TT: Thank you, Karkat. I certainly feel so much better about this whole thing. I’m sure my relief is palpable, somewhere beneath the continuing soul crushing terror.  
CG: CALM THE FUCK DOWN. HE ISN’T THAT BAD.  
TT: I think he wants me to fight him.  
CG: HAHAHAHAHAHA!  
CG: OH MAN.  
CG: SO WHAT SONG DO YOU WANT PLAYED AT YOUR FUNERAL?

You slump backwards, smacking your head on the wall and groaning before you force yourself back up to focus on your phone, actually in use for once now you can’t trust AR, or your shades, period. They were out of your sight and in his hands for long enough you’re worried, because it would be the perfect kind of revenge, getting into your shit and fucking it up, and you don’t doubt Mister Egbert is capable of things you’d consider impossible if he was practically anyone else.

TT: Something classy.  
TT: Like Winter Wrap-up, but played at half speed on an organ, with a sombre choir dressed as mourning ponies.  
CG: A LAST REQUEST THAT WOULD MAKE YOUR BROTHER PROUD.  
CG: AS IT’S THE TIME FOR YOUR FINAL CONFESSION, CAN I SUGGEST YOU START WITH WHATEVER YOU MANAGED TO DO THAT WAS BAD ENOUGH THAT THE MAN WHO I’M PRETTY FUCKING SURE COULD SHRUG OFF A DIRECT STRIKE FROM A METEOR NOT ONLY DEVELOPED A GRUDGE BUT KEPT IT HELD IN HIS PERFECTLY SHAVED HEART LONG ENOUGH THAT IT ROSE LIKE A SHARK-DICK DILDO YOU DROPPED IN A SOAPY BATH TO FUCK YOUR ASS WHEN YOU WERE JUST GETTING COMFORTABLE IN FILTH WATER AND DOMESTIC FUCKERY.  
TT: You’ve been dating Dave too long.  
CG: JESUS FUCK.  
CG: I KNOW.  
CG: I FUCKING KNOW.

John is still showering, and despite what he would have others believe, that gives you _plenty_ of time before he reappears. For a man who doesn’t shave, he spends a _long_ time fussing with a razor, making sure that moustache he’s so proud of is the _perfect_ shape. You’ve got time, and there’s no point avoiding the truth any longer. You made a mess, and it’s time to do your best to fix it, or at least Frankenstein it back into something you can pretend is a reasonable second best.

TT: So.  
CG: THIS BETTER BE GOOD.  
TT: Dave brought us up here for some shit, you know how it is, and rather than splash out on the sort of fancy hotel people expect him to stay in he dragged us to the middle of this Stepford suburb and told me we were staying with a friend.  
CG: DIDN’T THE EGBERT TIP YOU OFF?  
TT: He didn’t mention an Egbert.  
TT: I got told, hey, my name is James, and Dave just called him, uh.  
TT: Dad.  
CG: WHAT.  
TT: You read what I said.  
TT: I assumed it was a sex thing.  
CG: THE FACT I WOULD HAVE MADE THE SAME ASSUMPTION IS MAKING MY HEART REGURGITATE ITS OWN VALVES IN A FIT OF DESPERATE REBELLION.  
TT: Yeah, see? It was a reasonable thing to think.  
TT: So James welcomes us in and I thought it wouldn’t be so bad, some time to kick back and work on some code for my newest project, maybe start some sick fires about this homey corner of the twilight zone.  
TT: But instead the only burns were the ones that nearly left me in need of some serious recuperation.  
TT: I wasn’t even finished unpacking before he dropped the first Gambit.  
CG: POOR, UNPREPARED SOUL.  
TT: It was nothing I couldn’t handle, even if it caught me off-guard when I’m used to nothing catching me off-guard that I haven’t programmed to do that.  
TT: Next morning there was a bucket above my door, some kind of shaving cream grenade in the shower, what I came to learn was the mundane trappings that came with a skilled pranking master or whatever he thinks he is.  
TT: He gave me a weekend to settle in before he started pulling out the stops.  
CG: HOW BADLY DID THAT SHATTER YOUR FRAGILE, GLITTER-LADEN SOUL?  
TT: I still can’t be alone in the same room as a safe.  
CG: THE SAFE GAMBIT. A CLASSIC, IN THE SAME WAY THAT IMPALING SOMEONE ON A TEN FOOT POLE COULD BE CONSIDERED CLASSICAL.  
TT: It all built to a head and in the end one day James was driving Dave to go do whatever the fuck he even does when he isn’t tearing scripts up or pretending he’s in control of his life, I ended up alone in the house.  
TT: I’d asked him to strife, okay? I tried the reasonable route.  
CG: RIGHT, BECAUSE TELLING SOMEONE TO HIT YOU REPEATEDLY WHILE YOU FLAIL A SWORD AT THEM IS THE BEST WAY TO SOLVE ANY AND ALL PETTY DISAGREEMENTS.  
TT: See, you understand.  
CG: I HATE THAT YES. I DO.  
TT: He told me he wouldn’t strife me, told me to be more creative if I wanted to get even, so when they were both out, I did exactly that.  
TT: I got creative.  
CG: HOW BADLY DID YOUR PAST SELF GIVE YOUR FUTURE SELF A BRASS-KNUCKLE DICK PUNCH REACHAROUND?  
TT: I hacked his PDA.  
CG: DIRK.  
TT: And his account on that Serious Business service no one uses but accountants and secretaries, and bakers apparently.  
CG: DIRK.  
TT: And once I had all his details, I just...  
CG: FUCKED YOURSELF.  
TT: You could say that.  
TT: I had access to everything, and a few hours before he got back, because there’s no way he would check a notification at the wheel.  
TT: That was long enough for me to get in and tear up every shred of credibility he had through a mix of galleries full of ironically chosen fashion statements, the worst laundering and etiquette advice I could devise, and most devastatingly a series of pictures of his suits and pipes in crumpled disarray.  
TT: Needless to say, the reception when he got home was… ungentlemanly of him.  
CG: YOU WENT TOO FAR.  
TT: Yeah, I realised that when he made an orange cake for me that bled.  
CG: UH.  
TT: The red juices of my imminent demise were apple flavoured, at that.  
TT: This is a man who doesn’t fuck around when he’s angry.  
CG: I’M NOT SURE BAKING A CAKE COUNTS AS ANYTHING BUT FUCKING AROUND.  
TT: Then clearly you’re not a master of the sort of not-so-subtle mind games that would get Rose hot under the collar.  
TT: We left the next day, so I never really got a chance to see what revenge he really had in store, and I left assuming the Gambit was flushed in my favour and that I could dust my hands of the whole affair without ever looking back.  
CG: AND THEN KARMA WRAPPED A SWEATY HAND AROUND YOUR HIPS AND POLITELY INFORMED YOU THAT YOU MADE THE PHALLUS AND NOW YOU HAD TO RIDE IT.  
TT: With frosting as my only lubrication.  
TT: Yeah.  
TT: You know how I know he’s really mad?  
CG: NO, MY PSYCHIC POWERS HAVE BEEN ON THE FRITZ EVER SINCE YOUR BROTHER’S CHARMING PERSONALITY DROVE ME TO BANG MY HEAD INTO THE WALL ONE TOO MANY TIMES.  
TT: He hasn’t pranked us since we arrived.  
CG: HOLY SHIT.  
CG: I DON’T THINK I’M JOKING ABOUT YOUR FUNERAL ANYMORE.  
TT: So what do I do? How do I even begin to approach this clusterfuck of my own design?  
TT: I can’t think of many ways to make a worse first impression than finding out you already made one when you were still sure you machinations were locked up tighter than your insecurities and just as unlikely to bite you in the pert plush rump.  
TT: It doesn’t take a master of irony to tell you how that panned out for me.  
CG: HERE’S A CRAZY IDEA.  
CG: YOU START BY TELLING JOHN BEFORE THE LIE GETS TOO DIFFICULT TO GET OUT OF WITHOUT SOME SORT OF EGO MUTILATION AND A SIDE ORDER OF EGBERT FLAVOUR DISAPPOINTMENT.  
TT: I’m going to tell him when he’s done mowing his overgrown facial lawn.  
CG: I THINK HIS MOUSTACHE LOOKS GREAT ON HIM.  
TT: Wow I’m going to have to go ahead and veto that vote for people with taste now your true colours are showing.  
CG: SHUT UP.  
CG: JUST START WITH THE FACTS. THE MORE YOU WRAP THIS UP IN SOME BULLSHIT METAPHOR ABOUT A BLEEDING CAKE FILLED WITH THE APPLE FLAVOURED PAST MISTAKES THAT RUIN YOUR DOMESTIC FUTURE, THE MORE IT’S GOING TO GO TO HELL ON THE EXPRESS TRAIN STRAIGHT TO SATAN’S PRIVATE HUMILIATION CHAMBER.  
TT: Hey that cake metaphor isn’t that bad.  
CG: STRIDER, IF I FIND OUT YOU SAID ONE WORD ABOUT A CAKE THAT WAS IN ANY WAY FICTITIOUS, I’M GOING TO FIND A WAY TO ESCORT YOU TO YOUR ETERNAL TORTURE MYSELF AND ASK FOR THE FIRST GO AT THE PONY FACED POKERS.  
CG: I CAN’T BELIEVE WHENEVER PEOPLE COME CRAWLING TO ME FOR ADVICE IT’S ALWAYS BECAUSE THEY’RE TOO BUSY SNIFFING THEIR OWN ASSES TO CONSIDER JUST TALKING TO PEOPLE WITHOUT HORSESHIT CLOAKS AND IRONIC DAGGERS.  
CG: THE FOUNDATION OF ANY GOOD RELATIONSHIP IS COMMUNICATION.  
CG: BEFORE YOU SAY ANYTHING, YES, I’M STILL NOT SURE HOW MY ENGAGEMENT TO DAVE HASN’T ALREADY COMBUSTED IN A SHOW OF STUNNING STUPIDITY.  
CG: BUT IF YOU GIVE TWO SHITS ABOUT JOHN, YOU WON’T RISK YOUR OWN RELATIONSHIP ON A GAMBLE WHEN YOU COULD JUST BE UPFRONT AND DO THE THING WITH THE WORDS AND THE TALKING AND PRETENDING YOU’RE BOTH REASONABLE MEN INSTEAD OF OVERGROWN CHILDREN.  
CG: JOHN GREW UP IN THAT HOUSE. HE KNOWS THE GAMBIT.  
CG: HE ALSO KNOWS HOW BADLY YOU AND DAVE CAN FUCK THE SIMPLEST THINGS UP.  
CG: I MEAN THAT IN THE FONDEST WAY IT’S POSSIBLE TO DETEST SOMEONE.  
CG: THE ONLY ONE WHO’S GOING TO MAKE THIS A DISASTER IS YOU PLUNGING A SWORD THROUGH YOUR FOOT IN AN ATTEMPT TO DAMAGE CONTROL SOMETHING THAT WAS PERFECTLY FINE UNTIL YOU GOT OUT A MICROSCOPE TO FIND THE SINGLE CRACK IN IT AND INSISTED IT WAS ALL ONE MOMENT FROM FALLING APART UNTIL YOU BUSTED SOME TOXICALLY SICK MOVE AND SAVED THE DAY, THUS DOOMING EVERYTHING AND EVERYONE INVOLVED.  
CG: JUST FOR ONCE, MAYBE ROLL WITH IT.  
CG: YOU NEVER KNOW WHAT DITCHING STATISTICS AND TACTICS AND JUST APPROACHING THINGS LIKE SOME KIND OF AVERAGE HUMAN BEING MIGHT ACHIEVE.

You’re not sure if you remember how to do that.

There’s only so long you can get away with wrapping yourself up in diversionary irony and carefully chosen paths of action before you start to lose track of what’s strategy and what’s just you, underneath. You reached the point of no return longer ago than you’d like to admit, and the last year or so has been spent trying to pull yourself back apart, to figure out if there was still enough _Dirk_ left under everything for you to let the rest go.

Even with John, it was some calculated dance, assessing each of his actions and plotting the reaction that would have the most favourable results, and you had a lot more cleaning artefacts in heated hearths at the point Dave intervened and your plans came to an abrupt end. Or, at least, they changed to focus on dates, and then fighting down your impulses to control more and more of the relationship, something thankfully helped by John taking exactly none of your shit and rolling his eyes in your face when you tried.

By the time you moved in with him, it was because you trusted him to keep you in check without forcing your hand, a balance you’d started to doubt you’d find. After everything with Jake, and Roxy, and that one experimental week with AR you still haven’t quite purged from your memory despite your best attempts, you’d realised it would take something very particular to make you happy in life.

That very particular thing happens to have very particularly become the shape of John Egbert, and you thank every shitty movie in his collection almost daily for giving you the excuse you needed to make contact with another human being and start down a road you’d started to give up hope of ever walking.

“Where are your shades?” John interrupts your train of thought with impeccable timing, and you look up to find him standing by the door he’s just nudged shut, a towel around his waist and a few specks of shaving cream still dotted through his moustache. You shrug, gesturing over at your shut case with an evasive mutter, and he glances from it to you and back, before frowning and walking over, unwrapping the towel as he goes and starting on his hair. “Okay, so... _Why_ are they in there, instead of on your face?”

“I take them off sometimes, John. I know that’s probably a shock to you, as you live with me and see me take them off all the time.”

“You take them off to sleep, and shower, and when we’re in bed.” He frowns, putting his hands on his hips and standing brazenly in front of you wearing nothing but the towel draped over his head. “Sometimes, if I’m lucky, you leave them off when we date.”

“I needed some time to myself,” you explain, and John gives you a flat look.

“Or time _away_ from yourself,” he counters, and he catches the flinch you don’t have dark glass to disguise, rolling his eyes. “What did he even do? I thought you can just… turn him off.”

“I’ve told you before, I don’t dig the whole coma thing, and this time it might not even _be_ him, or not just him, that’s-”

You stop too late, and put your hands on your face to block out the way John is looking at you.

“Dirk,” is all he says, and you nod and drop your hands to your side, pressing your phone down into the mattress. Right. You can do this, like an _average person_ and everything. You can speak to him.

“I locked them in there because I don’t know for sure they weren’t compromised and I can’t risk the chance when things are already risky enough as it is.” You breathe, counting out the exhale, the inhale. “I’m at a disadvantage but I can minimise the damage-” Christ, you’re glad Karkat can’t hear this. “I mean. I can make it a smaller disadvantage, at least.”

“Compromised? By who? _Dad?_ ” John doesn’t laugh at you, despite what you expected, just frowning and tugging the towel down to fluff it at his face before he scrubs his chest. “I wouldn’t doubt he’d mess with you, that’s what he does! But he’s… uh. Not been doing that, actually.”

He looks confused, and you can see it catching up with him, see the instant he plays the last day or so back and finds it lacking.

“Oh my God,” John murmurs, “he hasn’t done _anything._ ”

“Nope.”

You watch him consider it, before he looks at you, his eyes narrowing. “What did you _do._ ”

“Nothing, this time.”

“ _This time._ ”

Well, this conversation was a lot easier to jump straight into than you expected. When you nod John groans, whipping the towel at you and spraying you with a fine mist of water and shame. “Dirk, is this one of those things you should’ve told me before?”

“One of those things? There’s been _more?_ ”

“The Roxy thing, the birthday thing, the talking shades, the robots- Oh, and remember the time you didn’t tell me Dave was going to be in your house staying over until _after_ I thought he was some guy robbing you and hit him with a pan?” John pauses, finishing counting it on his fingers and returning to holding his hips. “I _still_ owe Dave a favour for that! And you know what _Dave favours_ are like.”

“...I didn’t know you’d go back there that night.”

John’s pursed lips tell you that isn’t a good excuse, and you take the opportunity to sweep all that under the bed and reel him back to the point instead.

“I’ve met your Dad. Before, I mean. Dave brought me here once and we stayed for a week, about five years ago. Way, _way_ before I knew you, or even thought I’d ever meet any of Dave’s friends who weren't Rose.” You push down your concerns in favour of a statement of facts, raw and simple, the lack of embellishment feeling odd and leaving what you say feeling naked instead. Maybe that’s okay, with John? Even with a topic like _this._ “I wasn’t ready for his pranking and he wouldn’t let me get even my way, so I tried to do it _his_ way, and…”

“It was a disaster?”

“In summary? Yeah. He left his PDA here when he took Dave into the city, and I did what comes naturally. There were unlaundered shirts, John, and poor advice on the correct way to fold slacks. There was a copious amount of... _baggy jeans._ I figured out the weakness and I ran with it and it was… Frankly, dude, it was a complete success, because I wasn’t intending to stay in the good graces of a guy I was sure I’d never see again.” You feel a weight lift as another settles, heavier in your gut, John’s expression hard to read beyond the pinched lines between his brows. “He left, I woke up, I wrecked his shit, and by the time he got home I’m pretty sure he was never going to be taken seriously when it came to being a respectable gentleman on the internet again, and also that he hated me.”

“You… did _that._ ” John pauses, wetting his lips before he continues just as slowly. “To my _Dad._ ”

“Yes.”

“He told you to make a run for the Prankster’s Gambit, and you did… _that._ ”

“Glad to see you’re following.”

John clasps his hands and presses them against his mouth, staring at you over them.

“I think,” he says at last, “that I love you.”

That’s not exactly where you were expecting this to go. You don’t complain at the fact a moment later you have a lap full of John’s bare ass, even if your thighs suffer under the weight and you’re fairly sure that it won’t be long before you can’t feel your legs; it’s a price worth paying for the arms that are around you and the way his shoulders are shaking as he muffles his laughs into your hair.

“So it’s… okay?” You hazard, and John lifts his head to snort.

“Oh, _God_ no. He’s not going to let something like that go unanswered! You’re probably going to die.”

“Why does _everyone_ keep _saying that?_ ”

“Because you beat Dad at his own game, Dirk, and _no one_ beats Dad at his own game! Not even _me._ Not even Nanna, God rest her soul.” John kisses your forehead. “Apparently the Egbert family has a weakness for Strider tactics, and he’s not going to like that, not one bit! He let down the family name. Whatever he’s planning, it’s going to be _way_ worse than messing with your Instagram.”

“Wow.” You slump forward against him, groaning into his chest. “I feel my courage soaring to unimaginable heights. My blood pumps with fresh cut determination and I owe it all to the sweet love of my life and his way with inspiring words.”

“Glad I could help!”

And _he_ calls _you_ a _brat._

“I’m sure you’ll survive, Dirk. Even if Dad _did_ hate your guts, you make me happy, and he knows that. I don’t think he’d take that away from me.” John sighs, smooshing his cheek against your head and patting your back. “So, with that in _mind,_ I’m sure you’ll be fine when I go out tomorrow.”

“What.” Oh _hell_ no.

“I’m going out! Jade is in town, and I was going to go up and see her, and give you and Dad some time to bond!”

“John that is the _worst idea I’ve heard today._ He’s going to eat me alive!”

“Hm.” His cheek puffs up with air, then deflates with a whistle. “Well, I won’t lie! It _does_ make sense that Dad suggested it.”

“Oh my _God._ ”

You spent a long time considering how you’d die, on your darkest days. You’d had a few theories over the years, but you thought you’d figured it out, the irony of stairs being the thing that did you in too great to escape, a black hole of idiotic callbacks that Dave would never escape. It was that, or you’d be replaced by a robotic doppelganger and no one else would ever know.

If that hasn’t already happened, obviously. Sometimes you wonder.

But no, this is it. A grandpa in a suit is going to prank you to death, and your beloved is going to be laughing the whole time. It’s embarrassing. Maybe you can still escape it, if you’re quick enough.

“John,” you begin carefully. “There’s only one way out of this.”

John throws his head back dramatically and drags out his sigh as long as it can possibly last. “I’m not going to decapitate you.”

“ _John._ ”

“Dirk we have this conversation _once a week_.”

It was worth a shot.

“You know,” John hums, reclining back enough to get a hand under your shirt. “You _could_ just see how it goes, and instead of worrying yourself into endless circles you could just take advantage of the naked dude who’s right here and totally game for being a great distraction.”

“I could.” You will. Karkat’s right, for all it pains you to say it. For once, you’re going to try this without a plan, and for all that has anxiety nipping at your heels as the big bad wolf hunts down little rad riding hood, something deep inside you is insisting it’ll be better this way. At least for now, John is right, you could use a night not thinking about anything except how lucky you are that the ass in your lap and the guy it belongs to are yours.

He beams and swoops down to kiss you when you nod, and you put everything else aside. Tonight is going to be a good night, no matter what awaits you in the morning, and _nothing,_ you think firmly, daring dramatic irony to fuck you once again, is going to take it away.

For once, to your surprise, nothing does.

.:.

Mister Egbert makes John a lunch to take with him despite the whined complaints he receives about the matter, and despite the fact your stomach is trying to do a triple somersault out of your mouth, it’s endearing watching your boyfriend grimace his way to the car with a brown bag clutched in his hand and a bottle of water- _it’s best to stay hydrated, John-_ in the other. He leans it to deposit them both in the car before he straightens and looks between you and his Dad, lingering on the porch, his smile a little strained as he grips the top of the car door tightly and hesitates.

“...Have fun, you guys,” he says brightly after a moment, and then he ducks into the car, waving before he backs out and turns to drive down between the identical houses and vanishes out of sight.

You feel the clouds of doom settle overhead, all the bleaker for the fact the world is pale and unfiltered today on the day you probably needed a mask to hide behind most of all.

“So.” You take the initiative when all the comes from beside you is the flick of a lighter and the rising haze of a pipe being put to good use. “How does this go down? We’re well beyond entry level shit, right? You’re skipping straight to safe level, maybe even the horse-double-pie trick.”

“No, actually.” He taps the pipe lightly, smoke licking out of his mouth as he speaks. “We tried doing things my way, if you recall, and I was… the loser, of that particular battle.”

_We’re going to have to settle this the way_ you _wanted._

“You… can’t be serious,” you reply, and just in case he _is,_ your brain takes this time to remind you that he is very tall, and _very_ broad, and Karkat wasn’t kidding when he said a head-on collision with a meteor would probably do little to hold him back.

“Oh, but Mister Strider, you of _all_ people should know I’m all about _Serious Business._ ”

You can’t believe he’s making a pun before he kills you.

“You- You said you wouldn’t, when I asked, and I _did_ ask, I wanted to strife like-” Alright, _normal people_ is pushing it and you won’t deny it, but _still._ “Like I was _used to._ ”

“Yes, and on the drive we took, I was sure to speak to David at _length_ about his parenting techniques.” He drags in a deep breath and then blows it out, idly making rings around his tongue. “Besides, that hardly stopped you attempting to get the better of me in a way which, I might add, took me _months_ to fix. I lost a lot of reputation among men whose opinions I valued greatly, and rebuilding those connections was slow, gruelling work.”

“And now you’re going to hit me over it.”

“I’m going to take up your invitation for a more simple sort of combat, now that you are a man who is capable of taking full responsibility for himself and his actions.”

“What if the offer had an expiry date?”

He chuckles, giving you a look that’s _way_ too similar to John for your liking. “Then we find out if your, what was it? Auto-responder? Is as capable of _wrecking your shit_ as he enthusiastically informed me he would be.”

_Son of a bitch._

“I don’t have a sword,” you mutter.

“Excellent. Nor do I.”

“John will flip his shit if he comes back to us both in bandages.”

“Then let us say the victor is the first to hold the other one in place on the ground for five seconds, and hope that you are capable of a nice, clean fight.”

“We’ll damage your house.”

“Exactly why I intended us to relocate to the back yard.”

_Fucking-_

“Why are you doing this?” You turn to him, something accusing in your voice as you rock up onto the balls of your feet to try to make yourself as tall as possible. “I didn’t mean to do anything that would actually hurt you, I was trying to do what you wanted me to!”

“That doesn’t mean you _didn’t_ hurt me,” he says, after looking you over with a strange expression. “And it doesn’t mean I’m kind enough to let it go.”

He turns and starts inside the house, and you rub your face with your hands, contemplating all the ways you could escape or just say _no_ but finding your pride infuriatingly blocking every path with the demand you stand and go through this petty ritual like a _man._

“What are you so afraid of?” James asks, as he pauses in the doorway. “I’m an old man, Dirk. I’m sure you’ll have no trouble winning and fulfilling my humble request.”

He takes off his hat as you stare after him, carefully hanging it on a hook by the door before he vanishes out of sight as he starts neatly rolling up his sleeves. You start walking away, towards the street, then turn back, then stop and just hold your head until your resolve snaps and you hurry after him.

Fine! _Fine._ If he wants a fight, _he’ll get a fight_ , and that’s really all there is left to say.

.:.

He’s marked a circle neatly in the yard, clear of anything for you to break out your best acrobatic flips on and disappointingly devoid of anything to build a strategy with, or to use to your advantage. All you have is yourself, changed into your wifebeater and still feeling bare without your shades, and James, still wearing his buttoned-up shirt and his glossy black tie, done up to perfection. His sleeves are both up, and a Jake in your ear excitedly tells you that means it's time to put your dukes up, have a good spot of rough and tumble or a damn fine wrestle or _whatever_ English would be cheerfully declaring this if he was here.

As it is, he’s not, and you’re starting to sorely regret not taking up his invitation of man-to-man fisticuffs more seriously. You can write a program to win this fight; you probably _have done,_ before. That program isn’t here now, though, isn’t running under your skin.

You have to do this on your own, no loopholes, no exploits, and no second guesses.

You take up position in the circle and count your breathing, keeping it slow and steady and not letting him get any further under your skin than he already has. This _is_ how you solve your familial desputes, even if it usually involves _way_ more swords, and you take some solace in the thought that however ridiculous it is, what you’re doing right now feels like… family. Like, in your own messed up way, you’re doing something to _bond_.

Is _that_ what this is?

Before you can explore the thought, James is counting down, a curt three, _two-_

And then he’s leapt forward, barely in time for you to gather your bearings, and his fist impacts the air your face would’ve been occupying if you hadn’t been able to flashstep to the side.

Wow, way to hold back there, Egbert!

He turns, and you pace, both of you, circling warily inside the lines and watching the other for signs of action, for signs of an opening you can take advantage of. His demeanour hasn’t changed at all, and for all you _know_ people think the same of _you,_ you can’t understand how he can look the same baking a cake as he does moments after aiming a knock-out blow at your face. He calmly surveys you, and then steps forward- and you don’t pause before you flashstep forward to meet him, bringing a fist up to smack him in the gut and blinking, startled, when he isn’t there.

His hand scrapes the back of your neck as he grasps the collar of your shit and tugs you backwards, trying to send you sprawling but only succeeding in throwing you into another flashstep that’s broken by a desperate backflip to your feet, which your straighten from just in time to find his fist coming for your face, _again._ You jump to the side, flash to the other side, but he isn’t fooled, his arm turning to carry the momentum straight towards you before you can get a blow in.

You duck under his arm and end up behind him, catching your heels in the grass so you can throw your weight forward and crash into his back. He staggers and then straightens as you curl your arms tightly around his throat, dragging your feet off the ground and leaving you dangling until you kick and scramble to get your legs around his waist.

This is in no sense of the words a _nice, clean fight,_ and he only makes that clearer when he grabs one of your legs and pulls it up sharply, pain flying up your spine and shocking you into your grip loosening just enough the he forces his neck free and leaves you dropping to the ground with a crack across your shoulder blades that leaves you dazed. Instead of pinning you down, he lifts your ankle above his head and you end up dangling, feeling blood rushing to your brain and knowing you don’t have long to act before you’ll be in no condition to make a wise decision.

That probably wouldn’t be that great a loss, given your stunning _wise decision_ is to grab his hips, and smack yourself forward to headbutt him square in the crotch.

He drops you and you get your hands on the ground fast enough to flip to your feet, swinging your fist up towards his jaw and barely flinching when he catches your wrist, arm moving so fast you’d think he could move as fast as _you_ if that wasn’t impossible. Well… Unlikely? _It’s not allowed,_ and you grab his wrist straight back to use the hold as an anchor and launch your body upwards. Most people underestimate how flexible you are- you _know_ John did- and you put it to good use as you wrap your legs around his throat and use his weight against him to set him off balance and have him tumbling backwards.

_Yes!_

For a moment, all you can feel is the thrill of it, the feeling of a good strife that you’d _missed_ in all the years since Dave stopped having time to spar with you, and since you moved into a place you didn’t feel fair wrecking with robots to pass your time. Strifing used to be your stress release, it used to be a way you had _fun,_ and you didn’t realise you missed it so much until this moment, with the air rushing past you and the heavy heat of a body collapsing under your strike.

You missed it, and for a moment, no matter how ridiculous this is, you smile.

He lands on the ground and you’re almost celebrating before he uses that same weight to throw you both to the side, rolling you over and crushing you down beneath him. You bring your knee up- no point ignoring a tried and tested technique, and uses his shock to shove him off you, scrabbling to escape and not managing to get a good enough start to flash away before he grabs your legs and rolls sideways, flipping you ungracefully and making you smack down into the dirt.

You roll over just in time for him to get above you, his knee pressing down on your chest and making it hard to breathe as he starts to count, voice firm and barely out of breath.

“One.”

You shove at his knee but he’s heavy, and he grabs your wrist with one hand, your shoulder with the other.

“Two.”

Dave is laughing at you, wherever he is.

_I’m an old man, Dirk._

You’re never going to live this down.

“Three.”

You search for a weakness and then it hits you, the one thing he’s forgotten, the only chink in his armour.

“Four.”

You reach fast with you one free arm, grab his tie and pull to choke him, to get one last upper hand-

-and it comes off in your hand as the clip holding it in place gives way.

_A fake tie._

James smiles at you, eyes shining.

“Five, Mister Strider, and I believe the day is mine.”

.:.

He lets you pick yourself up off the ground in your own time, but when you drag yourself inside with his fake tie still wrapped around your hand, you find him waiting on the couch with a coffee in his hand and another on the table, next to a slice of a cake that smells so fragrantly of orange it hits you the moment you walk in the room.

You look from the immaculately frosted slice to his raised, questioning eyebrows, and then despite your better judgement you limp over, sitting beside him and taking the coffee that’s waiting for you.

“That was…”

“A massacre,” you finish for him, and he concedes it with a nod and a shrug, before smiling down at his coffee.

“I was going to say _fun._ ”

You contemplate your coffee, and for a moment you think of a step and a kiss and bright eyes that lit up with the joy of something they’d forgotten they needed in their life.

“...Yeah.” You look up, at the pictures on the walls. “Yeah, it… was.”

“It’s been a long time since I got to exercise myself without my opponent holding back for fear they’d hurt such a frail elderly gentleman.”

“Bro, you’re a _lot_ of things, but _frail_ isn’t one of them.”

He laughs like John, big and bright, the sort of sound that fills a room in a pleasant way. You look at him, and the smile on his face makes him look much younger than he is, tension unwinding from you as he lifts his cup in a small sort of toast.

“By the strange laws your family operates under, I assume we are even?” He chuckles when you nod. “I think I can accept that. It was a _very_ satisfying victory.”

“Nice to know you weren’t pulling punches. Half of those could’ve floored me.”

“I knew you were fast enough to move out of the way.” He makes a back and forth motion with his finger as you set about the cake, closing your eyes to savour it melting in your mouth. “I saw no reason to insult you by pretending you weren’t more than capable of coping with my full strength.”

An incredulous snort escapes you as you brush the crumbs from your lips. “...I wouldn’t call that your _full strength._ I’ve seen what you can lift.”

“Lifting and hitting are different things, Dirk. Besides, I would prefer my son comes home to find you in one piece.”

You take another mouthful of cake and spend your time chewing the heavenly prize for second place, your bruised ego soothed by the orange joy that slips down your throat. This wasn’t as bad as you expected, wasn’t as bad as you’d been _making it,_ and if Karkat ever finds out you thought that, he’s going to make absolutely sure you know that he was right about you and your microscopic cracks.

“So, uh. What… _was_ all this?” You need to know, to be certain, to know if your passing thought was more than adrenaline making you grasp at nonexistent straws. James taps the side of his mug and then simply smiles.

“Last time you came to my house, you made an effort to follow _my_ traditions. If you are to be a member of our family, no matter if it’s brief, or something more lasting… I felt I owed you an attempt to follow yours.”

You set the cake and mug down, carefully, dusting off your hands before you extend a fist towards him and watch him over it. He lifts an eyebrow at you, and you nod down at your hand hopefully, until he finally lifts his own and knocks your knuckles together.

_Your_ traditions.

“I hope you’re okay with the fact I’m never, ever going to call you _Dad,_ ” you tell him, returning to your cake with satisfaction warming your chest that’s part the thrill of a strife, part knowing you haven’t fucked anything up, and part quality baking that John comes close to but has never quite reached the dizzying heights of in all his many delicious attempts.

“...I’d rather you didn’t, actually. I used to think it would be nice to hear that, someday, but after David…”

“I never got why he did that.”

“I assumed it was something I didn’t want to question too much.”

You laugh, catching the spray of crumbs that nearly escape your mouth, and after you swallow you start to talk, and actually _listen,_ and find that if you stop long enough to feel like you’re not being personally attacked and see the fun in the harmless intent, the Gambit is a pretty fun idea.

“You know, the way you met John, that’s a _classic_ example,” James tells you, and you start recounting the story with gusto, layering in all your barely-contained metaphors and all the other verbal dressings you’ve been carefully avoiding the rest of the day. James watches you as you come to life, motions big and constant, talking with your hands and your face and that one voice, that one warm voice, that only comes out when John’s the topic you get to wax lyrical over. He watches, and smiles, and tells you that he’s glad John has you.

You tell him you’re happier than anything that you’re lucky enough to have John.

By the time John comes home you’re covered in frosting and wrist deep in a bowl of dough, while James attempts to puzzle out the construction of the pony-shaped cake you welded a mould for, and you lick icing sugar off your dusted face as you smile at John and tell him he was right.

Things are going to work.

You’re fine. You’re cool.

You’re going to be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Prompts are open](http://khemi.tumblr.com/ask) to celebrate 413 and if you want to know what other Homestuck fics of mine are going to update, [the list is here.](http://khemi.tumblr.com/post/142540676467/khemis-list-of-updates-to-come)
> 
> I'm really glad to be finishing these fics, and I'm sorry I kept you all waiting.


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